


Partners

by Savva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savva/pseuds/Savva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were partners … in more ways than one. AU. EWE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. February 18, 2005

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. Huge thank you to my beta krazyredhead0317.

 

**Partners**

_Love me love me love me_

_Say you do_

_Let me fly away with you_

_So my love is like the wind_

_And wild is the wind_

( _Wild Is The Wind/Nina Simone)_

**February 18, 2005**

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to San Francisco International Airport. The temperature outside is 18C, and it is 6:30 PM local time. It was a pleasure to have you aboard our aircraft. Thank you for choosing British Airways. Have a nice evening.” The weary voice of their captain rang through the cabin, somehow reminding Hermione of Kingsley Shacklebolt. Their head of Aurors also always sounded tired and yet surprisingly reassuring. She drew a relieved sigh and finally let go of Harry’s hand, which she had been frantically clasping almost continuously for the last thirteen hours. Although their flight had been smooth enough, it had done nothing for her panicky state of mind. She absolutely loathed flying. Still. Even being an Auror hadn't helped her drop that stupid phobia.

 

“Thank goodness, it’s over,” she muttered, and turned to Harry, who just opened his eyes and groggily stared at her through his glasses, which sat slightly askew. Nowadays, he sported sleek, modern frames that made him look quite sharp most of the time. “Remind me to never, ever fly again,” she said, and straightened the glasses on his nose.

 

Harry’s face immediately assumed a guilty expression, and he shifted nervously. “You know we couldn’t request a Portkey. Kings will kill us as it is, even without adding an unauthorized use of International Portkey to it.”

 

“I know, partner, I know.” She smiled and patted his knee. “Don’t worry about it. We’re back on the ground, and that's what counts.”  

 

“Chicken.” He snorted and covered her hand with his. “Robert promised to organize the Portkey for our way back. He said that he has connections. With any luck, he’ll be able to do it for all three of us,” he said and his green eyes lit up with hope. For a moment, she saw a glimpse of the Harry she had met more than a decade ago – open and optimistic. Alas, before she even managed to blink, his jaw tightened, his gaze turned hollow, and he added in a dull voice, “If there _will be_ three of us.”

  

Hermione stifled a sigh, and squeezed his knee. “We’ll know soon enough.”

 

“Yep.” Harry nodded and averted his gaze suddenly very interested in his surroundings.

 

Meanwhile, the plane had reached its gate and stopped moving. Impatient to leave, people around them began to bustle about, hastily pulling their suitcases from the compartments and rushing down the aisle. Hermione and Harry waited until the plane was almost empty before taking their bags and moving toward the exit. No one was waiting for them, and they weren’t in a hurry to get to their hotel, knowing quite well that falling asleep wouldn’t be a simple task.

 

About an hour later, seated in a yellow taxicab and listening to cheerful Hindi music, they moved rapidly towards San Francisco, which was blanketed in a thick fog. Harry was silent, keeping his eyes on the window, though Hermione was certain that he wasn’t watching the scenery. Just out of habit, she tried to engage him in conversation, knowing beforehand that it was completely useless – she didn’t get anything more than a noncommittal ‘hmm’ from him. The landscape wasn’t at all interesting, and eventually, lacking other options, she focused her attention on their driver, who gleefully sang along to the song that was streaming from his radio, swaying his head in its snow-white turban along with the beat.

 

Soon, their cab stopped near an old hotel, and a handsome attendant in a flashy red uniform gallantly opened the door for her. Harry, seemingly unaware that they had arrived, kept staring at the window, and Hermione had to tug on his elbow in order to get his attention. He gave her a vacant smile, muttered, “Sorry,” and hastily climbed out of the car.

 

The pompousness of the burgundy-coloured and gilt-covered foyer gave Hermione an instant headache, and she was grateful when they made it to the lift, which, fortunately, was decorated in much milder colours. Their two adjacent rooms looked pleasant, and Hermione went looking for Harry after throwing her bag on the bed. She found him investigating the contents of a mini-fridge. “Aha!” he exclaimed, and withdrew two tiny bottles of Jack Daniels.

 

“I think we need to eat first,” said Hermione, muttering the cleaning charm on the glasses that Harry had already plunked on a coffee table.

 

“Don’t be a killjoy,” he said, and emptied the bottles into the glasses. “Cheers.”

 

Hermione sighed, echoed his ‘cheers’, and took a swig, watching him finish his drink in one go. 

 

“All right, what do you want to eat?” he said, grabbing a ridiculously thick menu and skimming through its pages.

 

“I don’t know,” she said, and shuffled back to her room. “Order whatever, you know what I like. I need to take a quick shower,” she called from her bathroom before closing the door.

 

After the shower, an unknown number of tiny bottles of whiskey, and dinner, which was filled with a heavy silence despite all Hermione’s efforts, they finally admitted that it was time for bed, though both of them knew that they wouldn’t be able to fall asleep easily – there was too much on their minds. After about an hour of restless turning and tossing, Hermione gave up and just lay in her bed, staring at the flickers of light on the wall and listening to the sounds of the city. A soft knock on the door confirmed her suspicion that Harry couldn’t sleep, either.

 

“It’s open, Harry,” she sighed, and a moment later she could discern his vague silhouette on the threshold.

 

 “I can’t sleep,” she heard him whispering.

 

“Yeah, me too,” she said, and moved to the side, opening the covers for him. “Come.” The sound of his bare feet on the floor drew closer, the bed bowed, and, in the next second, his arms were wrapped around her midriff with his warm lips sliding over her bare shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry, but I need it … need _you_ right now,” he muttered against her skin, his uneasiness almost palpable in the darkness of the room 

 

She smiled and kissed his messy hair. “Don’t be silly. That's what friends are for, and besides, I need you too.” Shifting, she let his lips find hers and returned his hesitant kiss with reassuring decisiveness. Encouraged, he took it from there, deftly driving them to the brink. They had known each other for so long and so thoroughly, it felt natural, perfect, really. Moving in unison, they reached the release they sought simultaneously, though there weren’t any accompanying declarations of affection. It wasn’t about love.  

 

Later, after Harry’s laboured breathing had turned into a light snoring, and his sweaty forehead rested against her side, Hermione once again lay wide awake, listening to the sleepy sounds of San Francisco and thinking about what had just happened. If Kings had known what was going on between them, they would both have been sacked in the blink of an eye. There was a strict policy about fraternising. Thank goodness they didn’t do this often, just once in a while when the stress level was too high to handle. Their first time had happened spontaneously a few weeks after Ron’s funeral. His death had hit them hard. Unbearably hard. Not only had they both lost their friend, but Harry had also lost his partner. Yet it had been Hermione who had come to him, crying and pleading for him to make her feel alive. He had, and, the morning after, she had decided to join the Aurors. It had seemed logical to her, to take Ron’s place – that was what friends were for.

 

For some reason, Kings hadn’t been too pleased with her decision and had denied her request to be taken on without proper training. Hence, Malfoy had become Harry’s new partner, while she had taken the required courses. The first couple of months were rough for both wizards, and Harry had spent a lot of time with her, endlessly ranting about Malfoy’s shortcomings. Eventually, though, they had got along well. Surprisingly well. So well that it had set Hermione thinking, to be honest. She had caught Harry staring at Draco more than once, and every time his green eyes had lit up with something she couldn’t quite place. She even had asked him, “Is there anything going on between you two?”

 

Alas, Harry, being Harry, had just shrugged his shoulders, and said, “We’re partners, nothing more.” And indeed, they were the perfect partners for almost three years. They would have definitely made Aurors of the year if Draco hadn’t suddenly disappeared without any trace. It had happened nine months ago, and Harry hadn’t stopped looking for him ever since. And that was when Hermione had returned the favour, trying to keep Harry from climbing the walls from uncertainty. Maybe, it’d been wrong, but it’d worked. Besides, sex was much healthier than a Calming Draught or Firewhisky.

 

Hermione turned to Harry and gently stroked his face, lingering on the long horizontal crease that was now permanently etched into his forehead. So much had changed since the summer of 1998: it was hard to wrap her mind around it. So much hadn’t gone as planned. She remembered all three of them, the Golden Trio, sitting in the Leaky and talking about their future. It had seemed so bright, so necessarily peaceful and wonderful. If someone had told her then that it would come to this, she would never have believed it. And yet, here she was, Hermione Granger – an Auror and Harry’s partner, in San Francisco, looking for Draco Malfoy, who was presumed to be dead months ago. No one could have imagined that, not even Professor Trelawney. Apparently, the future didn’t need Voldemort to go astray.

 

The first glints of dawn found Hermione still wide-awake. She sighed. It was going to be a tough day. 

 

 

 


	2. February 19, 2005

**_February 19, 2005_ **

 

_She looked up at the grey sky. Warm droplets pounded on her face, streaming down her neck, washing off her memories, making her feel whole. Here, she thought, this is happiness._

 

A soft tap on her shoulder tore Hermione from the dream, and, startled, she ripped her eyes open. She couldn’t recall falling asleep, but, judging by the bright sunlight filling the room, she must have dozed off for a few hours. Harry, already dressed, his unmanageable hair still wet, smiled at her. “Morning, sleepyhead. Robert will meet us in forty-five minutes.”

 

A quiet knock interrupted him, and a muffled “Breakfast” sounded from the corridor.

 

“Coming,” shouted Harry, and he dashed across the room. 

 

Using the moment, Hermione rolled off the bed. Her head felt heavy, and it took a moment for everything around to stop spinning. Muttering that she hated Jack Daniel’s, she wrapped herself in a bedsheet, grabbed her jeans and a tee, and shuffled to the loo. She really did hate drinking, and combine the whiskey with jet lag, and Hermione was feeling quite the worse for wear. The cool shower did help, and she felt much better when she came back.

 

As she returned to the room, she found Harry waiting for her, absent-mindedly skimming through a fresh issue of the San Francisco Chronicle, with their breakfast neatly served on a coffee table. He threw the newspaper on the table the moment she sat down near him. “I didn't know if you wanted any juice,” he said, removing the warming charm from the tea and pancakes. Pushing his glasses low on his nose, he opened the menu and began to read in a nasal monotone, “They have some weird stuff here: wheatgrass juice, sprouts juice, broccoli juice, acai berry juice, fresh coconut water. I’m pretty sure they have dandelion juice too, and I think I’ve seen carrot tea somewhere as well. They must have ordered it all straight from Lovegood’s gardens.” He unsuccessfully tried to conceal a wry smile.

 

Hermione snorted and elbowed him. “Stop it.”

 

“Hey,” he exclaimed, and, unable to hold his façade any longer, laughed out loud.  

 

Sipping her English Breakfast tea and nibbling on her pancakes, Hermione grinned at him: she treasured these rare moments of Harry being so carefree.

“Fresh coconut water, though …” Harry rubbed his chin with a puzzled expression. “Draco likes it; he likes everything coconut. I’ve never come round to understanding the taste.” He grimaced. “It’s pretty weird, actually – reminds me of wet socks. Yucky stuff.”

 

Wanting to prolong the moment, Hermione flailed her hand and puckered her lips, trying her best to impersonate Lavender. “I dunno,” she said. “Piña Colada tastes sooo fabulous.”

 

Alas, Harry’s gaze became unfocussed, and he drew a heavy sigh. “Yeah,” he breathed out absently, and Hermione reckoned that the moment had passed. They finished their breakfast in silence, and, fifteen minutes later, they were ready to leave.

 

“Are we going to come back?” she said as she put her jacket on and threw her purse over her shoulder.

 

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure. I hope not. I paid while you were sleeping, just in case.” Setting ‘Do not disturb’ signs on both doors, he added the Muggle repellent charm, said, “Come on,” and walked down the corridor to the elevator. 

 

Robert, a cheerful-looking American Auror, was already waiting for them in the lobby. Hermione had last seen him in London in November. He had been coming to the Ministry every four or five months to exchange information on wanted wizards and witches. Functioning under the regulations of Magical Intergovernmental Criminal Information Managing, they were supposed to disclose such data regularly. The lack of a Muggle-like network and computer system was a drawback, of course, so they had to do it the old-fashioned way, by physically cataloguing pictures, names and other facts. Naturally, as soon as Hermione had begun to work there, the majority of the paperwork had somehow landed on her shoulders. Thus she knew Rob rather well.

 

“Hi, guys,” he shouted as soon as they were close enough, blinding them both with his sparkling-white toothy smile and enthusiastically shaking their hands. His smile always made Hermione nostalgic: it reminded her of a toothpaste commercial that had been popular when she was little, and of her parents. She focused on his eyes rather than his smile: he had nice, warm eyes.

 

“Sorry I couldn’t make it to the airport yesterday. My girls had a soccer practice,” Rob said.

 

“It’s all right, Rob. We were dead tired anyway.” Harry smacked his shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Did you say soccer practice, mate? Why not Quidditch?”

 

Rob let out a hearty chortle. “Ah, man, they’re still too young for Quidditch,” he said, steering them from the hotel to the street.

 

It was surprisingly warm and sunny outside. With London’s miserable February weather, it seemed to Hermione that the winter wasn’t going to end any time soon, if ever. Here in San Francisco, however, spring was definitely in the air. Plus, Rob’s cheerfulness appeared to be contagious, and Hermione found herself grinning despite everything and without reason. “How old are the girls?” she asked, tilting her face up and enjoying the warmth of the Californian sun on her skin.

 

“Five. They’re twins,” said Rob, and he readily fished a picture from his chest pocket, in which two blue-eyed girls giggled just as cheerfully as their father.

 

“They're gorgeous,” said Hermione and Harry in unison.

 

“My little stars,” Rob muttered as he thoughtfully gazed at the photo, before clearing his throat and stashing it back in his pocket. “All right, guys, follow me,” he said, with his enthusiastic smile once again in place. “The Apparition point’s a few blocks from here.”

 

“Where are we going?” questioned Harry, hurrying after him, and forcing Hermione to hurry as well, even though she didn’t really want to speed up: she would have gladly enjoyed a lovely relaxing stroll.

 

“We’re going to our famous Monsieur Henry,” Rob said, navigating them up the steep hills of San Francisco. “Just don’t be surprised – he’s quite a character.”

 

“Why? Who’s he?” Harry frowned. “Does he know something?”

 

“Well, Henry's owned an escort agency for, I think, the last ninety years or so. He has the vastest clientele and the best girls and boys in the Bay area.”

 

“Escort agency!” said Harry, who obviously didn’t like the sound of it and failed to see a connection. “What does it have to do with Draco?”

 

Hermione put a calming hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Wait. I’m sure we’re about to find out how it connects to Draco.” She sighed – patience had never been Harry’s strong suit.

 

“You see,” Rob said, “we routinely check Henry’s so-called establishment. Just in case. There have been instances when we discovered runaway kids among Henry’s escorts. Anyway, long story short: I visited him last week and found this.” Rob stopped, extracted a photograph from a pocket of his trench coat and offered it to Harry. Solemnly, he went on, “I’m not sure if it’s Draco; he looks kind of different. I did ask Henry the name of the man in the photo, and I’ll be honest, I even pulled a bit of a bad-cop routine on the old bastard. Alas, he swore that he didn't know anything. He said that the man calls himself D, and that he found him wandering the streets.”

 

Harry’s sharp intake of breath caused Rob to ceased talking. “It’s him,” Harry managed to rasp as he turned to Hermione and thrust the picture into her hands. One quick glance lodged a hard lump in Hermione’s throat: it really was Draco, and, oh Merlin, did he look different. Clasping Harry’s arm, she felt his muscles tense, and she could bet that he was silently clenching his wand.  

 

“Well, let’s get going,” said Rob, beckoning them to a hidden courtyard. “Ready?” He took hold of their hands.

 

“Yes,” they answered simultaneously, and a second later Hermione felt the nauseating force of a Side-Along-Apparition. As soon as they landed, both of them assumed ready-to-strike positions, with their wands out. Rob, however, shook his head at them, mouthed, “Relax, there's no need,” and guided them up the stairs. Henry, clothed in a flashy à laseventies terracotta suit, met them in a foyer, which looked rather dated to Hermione’s eyes. Muted sage wallpaper wasn’t really her thing.

 

“Robbie, my dear, so nice to see you again,” Henry murmured, making a special emphasis on ‘again’ and curling his lips in a polite smile.

 

“Hey there, old man, how are you?” Rob strode to Henry and smacked his shoulder, perhaps with a little too much force. “I brought you visitors,” he said, nodding toward Hermione and Harry.

 

Henry’s face lit up with curiosity. “You did, Robbie? Hmmm, let me see.” He grabbed the glasses that dangled from a thick gold chain on his chest and put them on his nose, scrutinising his guests. “Merlin, is that Mister Harry Potter himself?” he eventually whispered. “I can’t believe it. In my humble establishment!” He dashed to Harry, clasped his hand, and shook it enthusiastically. When the stern-faced Harry, after a bit of a struggle, finally managed to free his hand, Henry turned to Hermione. “Miss Hermione Granger, I presume. What a pleasure,” he purred, and, with a gallant bow, kissed her hand, peering in her eyes.

 

It took all Hermione’s politeness not to wrestle her hand from Henry's. There was something repulsive about him: his almost colourless, slightly bulging eyes, or his clammy fingers, or maybe it was his insincere grin. She couldn’t quite determine. Noticing from the corner of her eye that Harry was discreetly wiping his hand on his trousers, Hermione concluded that it was indeed Henry’s fingers.

 

“Mister …” Harry paused, prompting Henry to provide his last name.

 

“Just Henry, Mister Potter. Call me Henry.” Henry waved his hand dismissively.

 

Harry cleared his throat and said, “We have a few questions for you, Henry.”

 

“Of course you do, my dear boy,” Henry croaked, throwing an odd and not entirely friendly glance at Harry. The next second, however, his smile was back, and he exclaimed, “My goodness, where are my manners? Follow me, my darlings,” and strode down the wallpapered corridor, beckoning them to follow him.

 

“Would you be so kind, Mister Potter, as to give me an autograph? I want to surprise my grandchildren.”

 

“You don't have grandkids, Henry,” said Rob with a snort. “Who are you kidding?”

 

“He-he-he, Robbie, Robbie, you know me too well,” Henry cackled, rounding the corner. “Here we are,” he said when they all reached a big and surprisingly modern room. A huge window filled one of the walls, showcasing a beautiful view of the Golden Gate Bridge. “Make yourself comfortable, dear friends.” Henry gave them another of his smiles and settled behind an elaborately carved mahogany desk. “How can I help you, Mister Potter?” He locked his fish-like eyes on Harry.

 

Rob walked around the desk and, hovering over Henry, his usual friendliness completely gone, said, “Did you find the wizard I was asking you about?”

 

Henry shifted in his chair. “Robbie, I told you before, and I’m telling you again, I don't know where he is. He appears once in a blue moon, and I give him clients. That’s about it. If you think I like this situation, you’re terribly wrong. They ask for him when he’s not around – he is a pretty boy, you know. It’s not how I like to conduct my business, and I hate it. If clients are unhappy, I am unhappy.”

 

He didn’t get a chance to add anything else, because, the next moment, Harry’s wand was pressed into his jugular vein. “Clients?” Harry hissed. Driving the sharp end of his wand deeper into Henry’s neck, he continued through clenched teeth, “What kind of clients? Did you force Draco to work for you, you stinky pimp?”

 

For a moment, Hermione contemplated interfering. However, eventually deciding that a little bit of heat would do Henry good, she remained silent. Impressively, he didn’t bat an eye at the sudden attack. He just uttered a displeased grunt, raised his hands in a pacifying gesture, and said, “Young man, please remove your wand from my neck. I’m too old for these games, and, as you can see, I’m unarmed.” When Harry ignored him, he went on, “I'll tell you one thing: I've owned this business for ninety-five years. None of my escorts has ever been forced to work here. It’s a privilege to be hired by Henry’s Escort Agency. I have very high standards.” He paused and drew a tired sigh. “Please do step back, it’s getting highly taxing to talk with you two hovering over me like that.”

 

Rob growled but took two steps back, whereas Harry moved only about an inch, though he did remove his wand from Henry’s neck. “Keep talking,” he got out gruffly.

 

“Ahh, much better,” Henry murmured. “I believe, Mister Potter, you owe me an apology. I did save your friend, after all.”

 

“Partner,” Harry said.

 

Henry chuckled and arched an eyebrow. “As you wish: I saved your _partner_. He was cold, hungry, and sick when I found him. Barely conscious. Wandering the streets, still in a hospital gown: he probably walked out of a Muggle infirmary, the moment he came to. He still had a needle in his arm. He was bleeding, Mister Potter. He might have died if it hadn't been for me. I reckon I've earned at least a little respect, if not gratitude.”

 

“Hospital gown,” Harry whispered, recoiling and gazing around, his green eyes frantically seeking Hermione. Sensing his need for her, she was near him in a heartbeat, her fingers intertwined with his and her shoulder keeping him from slumping. _God_ , she caught herself thinking, _in just what kind of mess did Draco get himself?_

 

“As for your concerns, and I can see you have them ... ” Henry's voice was cold, and his eyebrows arched suggestively. “Alas, I cannot tell you anything soothing, as what happens between an escort and a client, stays between an escort and a client. You’ll have to ask your partner. Perhaps he will tell you, some day. I bet he’s got some stories.” He chuckled.

 

Hermione felt Harry trying to leap toward him once again. This time, she didn’t let him. “He isn’t worth it, Harry,” she whispered, clasping his hand with both of hers. She could feel Harry’s heart thumping wildly, and her own heart tightened in response: she truly wished that Henry would stop talking. He had spoken enough drivel already.

 

As if sensing her thoughts, Henry stood up, walked around his desk, and stopped near them. “All in all, I have been extremely nice to your partner. I offered him a place to stay and a job. The fact that he could never stay here for long wasn’t my fault. Something wasn’t right with his head.” He tapped on his own head to demonstrate his point, and Hermione noticed how long and perfectly polished his nails were. Somehow that discovery made her nauseous. Henry was positively disgusting.

 

“It did my business no favours,” Henry continued, “and the last time he was here, I warned him, if he left again, he mustn’t come back. Ever. I'm not healthy enough to handle that type of problem; I’m an old man. And yet, just because I love Robbie, I asked around the other day and found out where he was seen lately. Here is the place.” He extended his hand with a parchment to Harry. “Now, please, leave. You've made me tired.” With that, he bowed his head, muttered, “Miss Granger,” and, facing Rob, added, “You know the way out, Robbie. Kiss the girls and Sophie from me,” and disappeared with a pop.

Rob, shifting awkwardly in the middle of the room, rubbed the back of his head and said, “Well, that was intense. Um, food, anyone?”

 

“Can we just go there?” said Harry, giving Rob the paper with the address.

 

Rob threw a quick glance at it and shook his head. “Nope. It’s too early. Come on, I’ll explain everything over lunch.”

 

Soon, they were sitting in a cosy place on Union Street. Hermione had already ordered a shrimp cocktail, and was now sipping a nice cold chardonnay, thoughtfully watching the motley passers-by, and listening to the boys, who were waiting for their steak tips, meanwhile enjoying Bloody Marys. Though, to be honest, Harry hardly looked pleased.

 

“What did you mean, ‘it’s too early’? Why?" he said as soon as their waiter had taken the order.

 

“It’s not what you think,” said Rob.

 

“What? I thought it was a room or a motel or something of that sort,” Harry said.

 

“It’s not. It’s a place, a church, to be exact, where hobos spend the night.”

 

“Hobos?” said Hermione, not quite grasping the meaning.

 

“Homeless people.”

 

“Homeless people.” Harry’s eyes widened, and he raked his fingers through his messy locks. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I think it’s my fault that our talk with Henry got out of hand. I should have explained more,” Rob said, and took a swig of his drink. “First of all, Henry’s not exactly a pimp. He does provide housing for newbies, just to get them going, you know. Until they can rent their own place.”

 

“Still a bloody pimp,” Harry muttered. 

 

Hermione nodded. She had to agree, Henry did come across as an utter git.

 

Rob swayed his head. “Perhaps he is. It’s not the point. We are talking about Draco now, and, as he explained to me, he found Draco in a very bad state, sifting through the trash, looking for something to eat. Henry took him in, cleaned him up, bought him a wardrobe and introduced him to clients. The usual shit, I guess.”

 

“I just don’t understand,” Hermione said, “why Draco didn't try to contact us. He knows you, he could have found you.” The whole story sounded illogical to her, right from the Draco-sifting-through-rubbish part.

 

“Henry said something about Draco’s head not being right. What did he mean?” Harry said, his gaze dark.

 

Rob sighed. “Yes, about that. It seems that Draco doesn’t remember anything, even his name, except that it starts with D. Some kind of traumatic memory loss, I guess.”

 

“Oh, God.” Hermione glanced at Harry, who kept silently clenching and unclenching his fists. “What happened to him?”

 

“No idea,” said Rob. “What I do know – at least what Henry told me – is that Draco was restless. He kept disappearing for weeks, and then reappearing on Henry’s doorstep, hungry and dirty again. Eventually, Henry had it with him. I can imagine that there will be an extensive interdepartmental investigation, once you're ready to make it official, that is. There are so many questions, starting with how the hell he ended up in San Francisco in the first place.”

 

“I have to talk to him,” muttered Harry, staring at the window with blank, unseeing eyes.

 

The waiter brought Hermione’s shrimp cocktail first, but her appetite just wasn’t there any more. Somehow, the image of a dirty and hungry Draco deprived her of any desire to eat.

 

“We need to find him and take him back to London. Today,” said Harry, just as his and Rob’s food arrived at the table. He finished his drink, and, to Hermione’s surprise, began to consume his steak tips. Sometimes, boys astonished her. Truly.

 

A few hours later, Rob brought them to the desolate downtown area where Draco supposedly spent his nights. Plastic bags and old newspapers covered the pavement, and the church that towered over it looked ominously dark for San Francisco. The thick fog that had begun to cocoon the city made the picture even more ghastly. “You can wait there.” Rob pointed to a Starbucks across the street.

 

“Wow,” Hermione said, genuinely surprised. “You have Starbucks in this kind of neighbourhood?” 

 

Rob chuckled. “It’s San Francisco, baby. We have them everywhere, and besides, on weekdays, this street doesn’t look so empty.” He glanced at his watch, coughed, and, with a guilty expression, went on, “They will begin to gather right after sunset. I’m sorry, guys, but I need to go. It’s Saturday, and the girls are waiting for me.”  

 

Harry patted his shoulder. “It’s all right, Rob. You spent enough time with us, as it is.”

 

Hermione readily joined Harry, and, smiling, added, “Yes. Thank you for everything, and sorry for spoiling your weekend.”

 

“Ah, that’s OK.” Rob gave them his habitual, sparkling smile. “That's what buddies are for, isn't it? By the way, I made you a Portkey. Untraceable!” He wiggled his brows, looking very smug. “I told you I have connections. It should bring you right to Hermione’s flat.” With that, he handed Hermione an envelope. “The card inside will activate it.” He hugged Hermione, shook Harry’s hand, and, saying, "All right then, I’m out of here,” turned to leave. “Send a Patronus if you need me,” he said, before walking down the street and eventually vanishing in the fog.

 

“How does he know where your flat is?” Harry said, as soon as Rob had gone.

 

Seeing his scowl, Hermione began to laugh. “Honestly, Harry, you’re such a dunce sometimes,” she said, and smacked him upside his head. “Don’t you remember, we had lunch at my place, all three of us?”

 

Harry rubbed his smacked head and said, “Nope.”

 

“Gee, and you’re one of the best Aurors, the one that's supposed to remember everything. Oh, whatever, let’s go to Starbucks. It’s getting chilly.” She hastened across the street, listening to Harry’s grumbling that it wasn't physically possible to remember everything, as he followed her. Once they had settled near the window with two Grande Lattes, they looked at each other and said in unison, “And now we wait.”

And they waited, watching how slowly dark silhouettes began to appear near the church. They emerged from the fog from different directions, somewhat resembling ghosts, or so it seemed to Hermione. Some of them dragged big, black bags with their possessions behind them, while other used shopping-carts for the same purpose. Either way, the sight was depressing.

 

Hours went by, but they didn’t see anyone who resembled the one wizard they needed. Hermione threw a glance at Harry, and if his clenched teeth were any indication, he was beginning to lose hope. She sighed and turned back to the window, noticing another silhouette that had appeared at the beginning of the street. He was tall, and he had long blond hair, but that wasn't what caught her attention. The wagon with his possessions rolled after him on its own. She did a double take, and then tugged on Harry’s sleeve. “Look.”

 

“Merlin,” said Harry. A second later, he was on the street, yelling, “Draco!”

 

_Did Harry just Apparate?_ Hermione thought as she ran outside. He was already near Draco when she caught up with him. Draco stopped and faced them, causing Harry to freeze on the spot. Hermione heard his loud intake of breath and locked her gaze on Draco's face. Yes, it was Draco: very thin, with his blond locks matted and stubble covering his face, but it was definitely him.  

 

For a few long moments, all three of them silently stared at each other.

 

Eventually, Harry was the first to speak. “Draco? It’s me,” he said, and moved closer to him.

 

Draco blinked, and rubbing his stubbly cheek, said, “It’s interesting that you keep calling me Draco. It does sound familiar, although I cannot quite recall why.” His gaze moved from Harry to Hermione. “You look somewhat familiar, as well. Do I know you?”

 

Hermione nodded. “Yes, Draco, you do know me.”

 

“Have we met through Henry?” he said, and regarded her with interest, his eyes roaming over her and lingering on the places they shouldn’t.

 

Filling with embarrassment that her stupid cheeks were flaming – she was supposed to have drop that blushing nonsense years ago, she wasn’t a shrinking violet after all – Hermione hurriedly muttered, “No, not through Henry. Actually, you know Harry even better than me.”

 

Draco returned his grey eyes to Harry again and frowned. “Hmm,” he said, and, for a moment, it seemed that his gaze lit up with a spark of recognition. He made a tiny step toward Harry, whose face immediately brightened with relief.

 

Harry quickly covered the distance between them, and, with the words “Come on, partner, it’s time to go home,” embraced Draco, who didn’t protest and even shifted into Harry’s embrace.

 

Hermione drew a sigh and relaxed. Alas, her delight was short-lived, because, the next moment, Draco said, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you,” and stepped back with a nonchalant shrug. “Oh, and I think I’ll keep that,” he added with a cocky, very Malfoy smile, showing them Harry’s wand clasped between his fingers.

 

“Fuck,” she heard Harry’s grumpy whisper.

 

_Indeed_ , Hermione thought. Apparently, with or without memory, Draco’s reflexes still worked fine. His Auror training hadn’t been in vain. Fortunately for them all, as soon as Draco began to walk away slowly, Hermione’s skills kicked in as well, and, not giving it another thought, she drew her wand, called to Harry, “Be ready to catch him,” and, aiming at the retreating Draco's back, shouted, “Stupefy!”

 

Harry bolted with lightning speed and caught Draco in mid-flight, quickly repossessing his wand. It took only a second to activate the Portkey, and soon all three of them were swirling towards London.

  

 

 

 

 


	3. February 20, 2005

**_February 20, 2005_ **

****

****

They barged into her flat right at the stroke of four. It was already morning in London. To her surprise, Hermione managed to land on her feet while Harry and Draco crashed in a messy heap in the middle of her living room.

 

“ _Lumos_ _,_ ” she muttered, and, hearing Harry’s pained grunt, asked, “Are you all right?”

 

“Yep, fine. Just a bruised bum,” came the muffled reply, and Harry’s face, his glasses once again badly askew and hair even more dishevelled than usual, emerged from under Draco’s shoulder.

 

Eyeing them sprawled on her floor in a mass of tangled limbs, Harry simply lying there with his eyes closed, Hermione sank onto the sofa. The fact that Harry didn’t rush to remove unconscious Draco from himself struck her as strange, but she discarded the thought with an inward shrug and said, “What now?”

 

Harry shifted and, carefully rolling Draco off, scrambled to his knees. Keeping his hand under Draco’s neck, he grabbed a small velvet cushion from the sofa and pushed it under his head, making sure that he looked comfortable. Satisfied with this arrangement, he looked at her and frowned. “Not sure,” he said, as he settled on the floor.

 

Frankly, they hadn’t really planned their course of action beyond finding Draco. Somehow, the possibility of bringing him back in such a peculiar state hadn't crossed their minds. She still believed that the crucial part was over: they had found him. Surely, they would be able to solve all the other issues … eventually _,_ she mused. Giving Draco a thorough once-over, she took in his surprisingly fancy-looking jeans and light-blue jumper – probably courtesy of Henry – and caught herself thinking that he looked handsome, despite his dirty hair and unshaven face. However, her next thought made her shudder. “Do you think he has any parasites on him?” she muttered, instinctively shifting away from them.

 

Harry shot her a confused glance. “Parasites?”

 

“Yes, you know – lice, mites,” she said, cringing. “We don’t know where he’s been.” The possibilities made her feel as though something were crawling under her skin.

 

Harry blinked, rubbed his chin, and turned to Draco. Hovering over him, he gently raked his fingers through his matted blond hair. “Don’t think so. He doesn’t look that dirty,” he said, tenderly moving a lock from Draco’s face. “I think ‘ _Scourgify_ ’ will have to do for now.”

 

Hermione shrugged. “All right.” She wasn’t entirely convinced that a simple Cleaning Charm would do the job, but she felt too tired to argue.

 

“We’re going to need a Sleeping Draught,” muttered Harry, still intently studying Draco's face. “He may come round any moment now.” As if in confirmation, Draco stirred and uttered a soft grunt. Harry muttered, “Shite,” and pulled out his wand.

 

Hermione sprang up and darted to the kitchen, where she grabbed a vial with the draught and an eyedropper from a cabinet. “Hold his head,” she commanded. Harry moved briskly and carefully lifted Draco’s head, while she squeezed one drop of the draught after another into Draco's barely-open mouth, waiting for them to dissolve.

 

“How much does he need?” Harry whispered.

 

“One drop for each hour of sleep. I think that’s enough,” she said, and corked the potion. Watching the even rise and fall of Draco’s chest, she released the breath she was holding, pulled out her wand and muttered, “ _Scourgify_ ”. “We should move him to the guestroom,” she said. “He’s going to be dead for the world for the next eight hours.”

 

Harry, who had kept his palm under Draco’s neck through the whole process, once again lowered him on the pillow and rose to his feet. Together, after a few chaotic manoeuvres, they managed to move him to the guestroom and ease him onto the bed. Without a moment of hesitation, Harry climbed over; levered himself up on his knees, and waved his wand, vanishing Draco’s jumper. A thin undershirt revealed just how scrawny Draco actually was; his ribs stuck out through the flimsy material. “Merlin,” Harry breathed, and ran the back of his hand over Draco’s collarbone, curling his fingers over his bony shoulder. “So thin.”

 

Feeling somewhat out of place and imposing, Hermione backed away from the room. “I’ll get the blanket,” she called from the corridor. After rummaging through the dresser, she came back with a thick alpaca blanket in her hands and found Harry perched on the edge of the bed, his face pensive and his thumb drawing soothing circles on Draco's calf. Draco, his jeans already transfigured into comfortable sleeping trousers, was peacefully snoring. She stifled a sigh, threw a cover over him, and took Harry’s hand. “Come on,” she said, leading him from the room.

 

“Tea?” she questioned, once they reached the living room, though, in all honesty, she was more than ready for bed.

 

Harry shook his head. “Nah, I’m knackered.”

 

“Yeah, me too.” She went toward her bedroom, expecting that Harry would follow her, but he didn’t.

 

Befuddled, Hermione shuffled back and discovered Harry lying on the sofa and seemingly already half asleep. Noticing her, he yawned, perhaps a bit theatrically, and groaned, “What a hellish day. I’m so bloody tired.”

 

Ignoring the impression that, for some reason, he was eager to be left alone, she decided to make sure that he knew he had a choice. “You don’t need to sleep here. You know that, right?” she said, watching him closely.

 

Harry gave her an apologetic smile and nodded. “Yes, I know.” He didn’t say anything else, though, and he didn’t make a move.

 

Now feeling foolish, she grumbled, “Good. Blankets and sheets are in the cabinet under the telly,” and started towards her room once again. “I’ll leave my door open,” she called from the corridor, although it was quite obvious that he wouldn’t come, not this time. Well, they weren’t exactly lovers, she reminded herself as she crashed on her bed.

 

Stretching, she sighed with relief. Harry was right; the day had been hellish. For a while, she simply lay there, enjoying the sense of being home, in her own bed. She even contemplated skipping the loo and washing and going straight to sleep. Alas, her prissy conscience kept nagging her until she capitulated and hobbled to the bathroom. She was glad she had, though, because she felt much better after taking a shower and putting on her favourite pyjamas. When finally reunited with her beloved pillow, she tried to ponder how or if Draco’s presence had influenced Harry’s sudden desire to sleep on the couch. But even that important dilemma couldn’t keep her eyelids from closing. Eventually, sleep cocooned her in its gentle, thought-muffling blanket, and she succumbed to it, abandoning all her contemplations.

 

She woke up to a sunny mid-morning with a sense that she had missed something important, and rushed to the living room, only to find it empty. Puzzled, she checked the kitchen and the loo – no Harry in sight. Finally, having run out of places to look, she tiptoed to the guestroom and peeked inside. _Of course_ , she thought, staring at Harry sleeping in an armchair near the bed. Closing the door as quietly as she could, she went back to the kitchen and sank onto a chair. Somehow, Harry’s behaviour didn’t seem so peculiar any more. If anything, it was logical: they didn’t want Draco to go missing again. Slightly relieved by that thought, she put on the kettle and got two cups out of the cabinet. Just as she expected, the moment tea was brewed and bread toasted, Harry appeared on the threshold, squinting sleepily and rubbing the crick in his neck.

 

“Sit,” she said, and slammed a cup of tea in front of him, the moment he settled on a chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, leaning on the counter. “I could have helped you. We could have taken turns.”

 

Using the cup as a shield against her irritation, Harry shrugged. “You needed to rest.”

 

“And you didn’t?”

 

“No.” Harry began to chew his toast, effectively ending the conversation.

 

“Stubborn arse,” she muttered, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Sometimes he really got on her nerves. “You can catch a few hours of sleep now,“ she said, when they had finished their tea. “I’ll keep an eye on Draco.”

 

Harry shook his head. “I’ll go to St. Mungo’s and get Anthony. I need to know what the hell happened.” 

 

“ _We_ need to know.”

 

“We,” he agreed and stood up, sending his cup to the sink with a quick wave of his hand. Giving her a quick peck on the cheek, he said, “Keep an eye on him, all right, partner?”

 

Not missing the teasing sparkle in his green eyes, she elbowed him with a smile, and said, “I will,” before he stepped into her fireplace.

 

As soon as the green flames of the Floo had disappeared, she glanced at the clock. If she hadn’t messed up the drop-count of the Sleeping Draught, she still had about two hours before Draco’s awakening. After swiftly cleaning the kitchen, she snatched a book from the shelf and crept into the guestroom. Draco was still asleep, so she settled in the armchair.  

 

So lost was she in her book that she didn’t hear him move. “I know you,” suddenly sounded from the bed, and she almost dropped her book in surprise. Jerking her head up, she met the grey eyes focused on her. Propped against the headboard, Draco had probably been scrutinising her for some time.

 

Inwardly cursing herself for being so amateurish, Hermione gave him a cautious smile, which he reciprocated with a wide grin. “I think I remember your hair,” he said. “I just cannot recall your name.” He chuckled and tried to run his fingers through his hair. It didn’t work, and he shrugged his shoulders instead. “Well, to be honest, for a long while I couldn’t recall my name, either. Right until you called me Draco yesterday, that is. By the way, thank you for that.” He flashed her a two-hundred-watt smile. “It’s getting better, though. At first, I didn’t even recognize my reflection in the mirror. Got used to it eventually. Weird, isn’t it?” 

 

Hermione nodded. “Yes, it is.” It really was weird.

 

“It’s truly comforting to find a familiar face. Do you know what can make it even better?” He abruptly rolled from the bed, came over to her, and peered into her eyes.

 

Hermione blinked. “No.”

 

“If you tell me your name.” 

 

Startled, she blurted, "Hermione."

 

"Ha, I knew that!” He exclaimed triumphantly. Taking her hand in his, he let his voice drop to a soft murmur. “It’s nice to meet you again, Hermione,” he said, and planted a kiss on the back of her wrist. Straightening, he glanced around, and, locating the bathroom, said, “May I?”

 

“Sure. There are fresh towels, shampoo, everything.”

 

“Much obliged.” He nodded, and strode toward the door. The moment he closed it, Hermione, unnerved, sprang up and ran from the room. It was not only that this Draco smiled much more than the Draco she knew. He also made her feel extremely uncomfortable with his flirting. Was he doing it unconsciously? Perhaps it was an acquired skill; she recalled Henry and his agency. That didn’t make it any less weird, though. It was quite the opposite, actually. She wasn’t used to this kind of attention from Draco. Heck, she wasn’t used to this kind of attention, period.

  

About thirty minutes later, she was making brunch when Draco found her. He appeared at the door, with one towel wrapped around his waist, another on his shoulders, and a hairbrush in his hand. “Could you please help me with my hair?” he said. “This tangled mess is driving me berserk.” His grey eyes, lucent as raindrops, were fixed on her.

 

“Err.” She kept her gaze on his chin – the only part she deemed safe at the moment. “Sure.”

 

“Thank you.” He smiled, handed her the brush, and settled on the chair, though not before taking a piece of toast and bacon from the table. “Ahhhh, food,” he whispered, almost reverently. 

 

She swallowed a lump in her throat, muttered, “Merlin help me,” before turning her attention to the task at hand. To her horror, the moment she touched Draco’s hair, he uttered a pleased sigh-purr, and that’s how Harry and Anthony found them.

 

First, she heard the roar of the Floo. Then Harry, probably driven by the smell of food, rushed into the kitchen with a smile on his face.

 

“Something smells g-” He froze midsentence, his eyes locked on Hermione’s fingers in Draco’s hair.

 

“Oh, hello, Hermione, Draco,” said Anthony, walking in after Harry and giving everybody the measured, friendly smile of a Healer.

 

Draco cocked his head, watching the newcomers with interest, but didn’t say anything. Hermione waved to Anthony and was about to greet him when Harry suddenly unfroze. “What's this?” he said, and yanked the towel from Draco’s shoulders.

 

Hermione had to step around to understand what Harry was talking about. There was an odd scar on the left side of Draco’s chest.

 

“Looks like a healed gunshot wound,” Anthony said. Harry glanced at him, and the Healer hurriedly continued, “I’ve seen wounds like that, as you can probably recall. This one here, though … Someone was aiming for his heart; missed only by half an inch.”

 

“Circe,” Hermione whispered.

 

Uncomfortable under their scrutiny, Draco shifted in his chair. “Um, perhaps I need to get dressed. I think I’ve provided enough entertainment,” he said, and stood up, holding the towel around his waist.   

 

“You mean someone tried to kill him,” said Harry, seemingly to himself, his eyes only on Draco. “Who did it to you?” he rasped forcefully, advancing toward him.

 

Draco, with his gaze suddenly unfocused, ran an unsteady hand over the scar and said, “I don't know. I don’t remember.” 

 

“You have to remember at least something,” Harry demanded. “Someone fucking tried to kill you, there has to be something you can recall! Names, faces!”

 

“Harry, stop,” Hermione yelled.

 

“Harry, please, you’re not helping,” Anthony tried to interfere.

 

“But I can’t!” Draco shouted and stumbled back into the chair. “There’s nothing – only darkness and beeping,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and massaging his temples. “I’m going to be sick,” he stated a second later, and vomited on Harry’s shoes. 

 

At this point, Anthony sprang into action, elbowing Harry out of his way and taking Draco under his arm. “You need to lie down,” he said softly to Draco, who looked disoriented. “Let me walk you to bed.”

 

Hermione threw a glare at Harry and hurried to show Anthony the way. Once they reached the guestroom, Anthony shooed her away as well, saying that he needed to talk to Draco alone. She found Harry in the living room, and, judging by his shoes, he already had taken care of the mess in the kitchen. “What on Earth has got into you?” she demanded with a frown and sat down near him.

 

Dropping his head into his hands, he groaned, “Nothing.”

 

Hermione sighed. She could sense how miserable he felt. “It’s going to be all right,” she reassured and smoothed his hair. It wasn’t necessarily true, but someone had to stay positive. “He's alive, and that's what counts.”

 

Harry stood up and began pacing the room. Hermione watched him, not knowing how to help. Luckily, Anthony returned before Harry drove himself and her completely bonkers. “How is he?” they questioned simultaneously.

 

Anthony smiled. “He’ll be all right.”

 

Hermione glanced at Harry and mouthed, “Told you.”

 

“He’s a little malnourished, but nothing too serious. Don’t let him eat too much at once, though. He seemed distressed, so I gave him a Calming Draught. He will be sleepy today, so let him rest as much as he needs. And – ” Anthony shot a warning glare at Harry, " –no interrogations of any kind.”

 

“But,” Harry began.

 

“No buts,” said Anthony. “I think it's important not to ask questions at this point. He obviously doesn’t have answers, anyway, and you'll only risk getting him agitated. You don’t know what kind of reaction you could provoke: a spontaneous magical episode, sudden Apparition...it can be anything. As I see it, Draco has suffered a serious trauma, which resulted in amnesia. I suggest a simple tactic: you answer his questions, but don't demand any answers from him. I mean that. Is that agreeable?”

 

“Yes.” Hermione readily agreed.

 

Harry, however, wasn’t ready to surrender. “What about Legilimency?” Hermione had to suppress the urge to smack him.

 

“I don't think it's a good idea.” Anthony shook his head. “Draco’s mind isn't in its best shape, as it is. Legilimency will only cause more problems or, even worse, permanent damage. We have to tread lightly here. I don’t think you want him to stay like this forever.”

 

Harry pushed his glasses up and muttered, “I guess you’re right. What _can_ we do then?”

 

Anthony frowned. “Not much, actually. I have to reread my grandmother’s notes. She was a Muggle psychiatrist, a good one. If I remember correctly, his memories may come back all at once or slowly. We just have to wait.”

 

“Shite,” Harry cussed.

 

“Yeah, I know. Suspense is the worst.” Anthony patted Harry’s shoulder. “All right, I need to get back to the hospital. Owl me if anything happens.” After a few steps, he paused, smiling at Hermione, his blue eyes lit up with affection. “How is your Auror career going?”

 

“Going,” she said.

 

“I see.” Anthony nodded and strode toward the Floo. “Don’t leave Draco alone, by the way. Also, I recommend adding Anti-Apparition wards, just in case.”

 

“Thank you, Anthony,” Hermione called after him, before he threw the powder in the fireplace and the roaring green flames swallowed him. She sighed, feeling guilty. She had promised to have dinner with Anthony eons ago. She couldn’t even explain why she kept cancelling and asking for a rain check. She liked him. Truly. It was just that the timing always seemed off to her.

 

The rest of the day was spent in warding the flat and checking on Draco, who woke up only twice. Feeling queasy, he refused to leave his room, and only agreed to eat a few pieces of toast, but Hermione still managed to trick him into drinking a little beef broth. It wasn’t easy, especially with Harry hovering over her shoulder all the time and being more annoying than helpful.

 

At some point in the evening, Harry stepped out to get Chinese. He also brought Draco’s clothes and a spare wand. “Where did you get his things?” Hermione said, manipulating her chicken Lo Mein with chopsticks.

 

Harry swallowed a piece of duck and shrugged. “He kept a spare set at Grimmauld Place.”

 

It sounded odd to her. “Why?”

 

“I don’t know. Just in case, I guess. I have a spare at his flat as well.”

 

“His flat? Wasn't he still living at the Manor before he disappeared?” Somehow, she had been sure that Draco would never leave his family house.

 

“No, not since his parents died. I mean, he kept it in good condition, and I think a few Malfoy elves still live there, but Draco – he just couldn’t.” Harry fell silent, staring at her with a strange glassy expression. She doubted that he could see her at that moment, because it looked as though his mind had gone somewhere far away.

 

“Harry, what is it?” she inquired, nudging his hand.  

 

He blinked and refocused his eyes on her. “I think they’re connected.”

 

Feeling the prickle of goose bumps, she asked, “Who? Harry? What are you talking about?”

 

“The Malfoys. I’m talking about the Malfoys. Think about it: Lucius and Narcissa were shot as well.” The words were rushing from his mouth.

 

For a moment, she thought that he had gone mad. “But it happened almost six years ago.”

 

“So?” He began to pace the floor of her tiny kitchen.

 

Hermione frowned and rubbed her forehead, trying to recall everything she knew about the death of Draco’s parents. They had been found dead at the cemetery near Severus Snape’s grave, shot with a Muggle gun, and, a few days later Augustus Rookwood had been found wandering the woods around the cemetery, clearly insane and with an old rifle in his possession. Despite the fact that he had never confirmed anything, he had been sent to Azkaban for life and the case had been closed, much to the relief of the public.

 

“But the Aurors, you in particular, found the killer,” she said. “I don’t understand. Rookwood is still in Azkaban, isn’t he?”

 

“He is.” Harry stopped pacing. “You don’t know everything, though. Some facts were never made public. When we found him, he wasn’t simply mad; he was Obliviated, and the Healers at St. Mungo’s confirmed that. They said that it didn’t mean that he couldn’t have killed the Malfoys. No one knew when exactly he had been Obliviated.”

 

“My God,” Hermione whispered. “Does Draco know about that?”

 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, sank on a chair, and said, “No. I never told him.” He looked at her, his green eyes full of despair. “At first, I didn’t like him much, and then … I just wanted him to move on, you know. Remember why he became an Auror in the first place?”

 

“Yes,” she said. She did know that part of the story well. After Rookwood’s trial, Draco, being his stubborn self, had refused to accept that a mad, half-dead wizard could kill his whole family singlehandedly. Thinking about this now, Hermione had to agree that it was strange indeed. Back then, however, no one had wanted to believe that there might have been something bigger behind those two deaths. Draco had badgered the Ministry, and the department of Magical Law Enforcement in particular, demanding the reopening of the case and a more careful investigation. At last, tired and annoyed, Kings had half-mockingly invited him to join their Auror squad.

 

A thought came to her. “Do you think Kings took him in because he felt guilty?”

 

“I dunno.” Harry shook his head. “I haven’t any idea what the hell Kings was thinking. I know Draco never believed in that Rookwood nonsense. I should have listened to him, and I didn't. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” He slammed his palm on the table, and dropped his head into his hands.

 

For a while, they sat silently, as Hermione feverishly organised her thoughts. “So, someone out there wants Draco dead,” she concluded eventually.

 

Harry tilted his head up and confirmed with a grave expression, “Yes.”

 

“And you think they will try to kill him again when or if they find out that he’s alive?”

 

“They’ve tried it once before; they most certainly will try it again, bloody bastards. This time, though, they'll have to go through me,” he said, his fists clenched and eyes fierce.

 

“Stop it!” This time she did smack him upside his head. “Enough heroics. We’ll talk to Kings tomorrow.”


	4. February 21, 2005

**_February 21, 2005_ **

 

 

The next day did not start well, but that didn’t surprise Hermione much – it wasMonday morning, which by definition foreshadowed a certain number of quandaries.

 

Frankly, some of them had been predetermined on Sunday evening by Harry’s refusal to return to Grimmauld Place. He had a tendency for stubborn streaks, and every once in a while his pig-headedness stretched beyond reason. That was the case this time. Hermione did try, though unsuccessfully, to convince him that there was absolutely no point in spending the night in her living room, let alone in an armchair in the guestroom. Predictably, her arguments about the flat's being painstakingly warded against anything unexpected had fallen on deaf ears. Harry had stayed and had wakened up with a crick in his neck, more than a little grumpy. Well, at least she had found him asleep on the couch. Thank goodness for that.

 

Breakfast was a rushed, tense affair, and at twenty minutes past seven they were ready to go. Before stepping into the Floo, Hermione, with Harry at her heels, checked on Draco. Fortunately, he was still completely out of it, and, after reinforcing the wards, they left.

 

The Ministry met them with empty, mouldy corridors, somehow reminding her of that ghastly looking street in San Francisco where they had found Draco just the other day. The resounding echoes of their hurried steps made her shiver, and a sudden, inexplicable sense that something was going to happen engulfed her. “Where is everybody?” she said as they hastened across the hall, her heartbeat racing and voice catching involuntarily.

 

Harry shrugged. “It’s Monday. No one is ever early on Monday.”

 

 _Of course_ , she thought, that definitely explained it.

 

Sensing something, Harry abruptly stopped and, pushing his glasses into place, peered at her, his green eyes skimming over her face with concern. She forced a smile, which probably didn’t look very convincing, because he said, “Come on,” and grabbed her hand, his fingers interlaced with hers reassuringly. Somehow, he always knew when she needed him. Walking hand in hand the rest of the way, they soon reached the Aurors' quarters and went in. Fortunately, their common room, though empty, was filled with sunlight. She had invented that particular charm herself and was extremely proud of it. Drawing a sigh of relief, she sank on a chair behind her desk.

 

“All right?” asked Harry, eyeing her with a frown.

“Yep.” She nodded. For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom what had just happened. Usually, she wasn’t susceptible to sudden panic attacks. Perhaps their talk yesterday about the death of the Malfoys had stirred memories that didn’t want to be stirred. _Whatever_ _._ She shook off the last remainders of the odd feeling, and focused her eyes on the door to Kingsley’s office. “Do you think he’s already there?” she said.

 

“Of course he is,” Harry said, watching the door warily. “He’s always there. I bet he lives in that office,” he added.

 

Hermione snorted. “Stop it. Surely he has someone or something in his life besides the Ministry.” Harry’s sceptical grimace reminded her just how much time their boss actually spent at work, and she added, “Or maybe not.”

 

Harry glanced at the clock on the wall, shifted nervously, and said, “Ready?”

 

Hermione stood up and, without a second thought, knocked on the door.

 

“Wait,” Harry hissed. “We haven’t decided on our agenda.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Relax. I’ll talk.”

 

“Come in,” the low voice of their boss reached them, and the door flew open.

 

The moment they stepped into the office, it became obvious that Kingsley wasn’t in the best of moods as well. In fact, he looked even grumpier than Harry. Scrutinising his face and noticing the heaviness of his eyelids, Hermione thought that perhaps Harry was correct. Kingsley did look as though he had spent the night on that uncomfortable-looking leather sofa in the corner.

 

Resting his chin on his hand, his dark eyes fixed on them, he prompted, “Yes?”

 

After a quick exchange of glances with Harry, Hermione said, “It’s about Malfoy.”

 

Kingsley narrowed his eyes and said, “What about him?”

 

Hermione started, “Well…”

 

“We found him,” Harry blurted.

 

 _What on Earth_ _?_ Hermione thought, and threw an exasperated glare at her friend. His lack of patience was killing her at times.   

 

Kingsley, for his part, drew himself up to his rather intimidating height and barked, “You what?”

 

“We found him,” repeated Hermione, inwardly cursing Harry.

 

For a moment, Kingsley silently scrutinised them, shifting his heavy gaze from her face to Harry’s and then back to her. Eventually, he sat down again and commanded, “Sit and explain.” 

 

They readily complied and, after sitting down, told him everything about their trip to San Francisco, Henry, Draco’s memory loss and Anthony’s suggestions. As their story progressed, the crease on Kingsley’s forehead grew deeper and deeper. “How did you get to San Francisco?” he asked when they had finished.

 

“By plane,” Hermione explained.

 

“And how did you get back?”

 

“Err.” Hermione faltered. The last thing she wanted was to get Rob in trouble.

 

“We used a Portkey, an unauthorised one,” Harry hurriedly muttered, resolutely keeping his face straight.

 

“I see.” Kingsley drew a heavy sigh and remarked wearily, “I should suspend both of you.”

 

“But,” Hermione and Harry breathed out, horrified.

 

The older wizard lifted his arm sternly, easily silencing them. “I always knew that you didn’t have any regard for the rules. But this … After all this time, nothing surprises me any more.” He shook his head as though in regret. “Listen carefully. By tomorrow morning, I want to have accounts of the events from each of you, as well as a statement from your friendly Healer Goldstein on my desk. Understood?”

 

“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

 

“Furthermore, you have a week to deal with Auror Malfoy’s memories. As I cannot let you both look after him, Hermione will do it alone. Harry, you have a week's worth of paperwork on your desk. Deal with it. Perhaps it will teach you to file your reports on time.” Harry was about to argue, but Kingsley’s glare stopped him. “I expect regular updates from you, Hermione. Next week, both of you have to be back to your regular duties.”

 

“What about Draco?” Harry exclaimed, disregarding Hermione’s tug on his sleeve.

 

“If Auror Malfoy is not better by next Monday, we will arrange a formal evaluation in St. Mungo’s. Then he can be relocated to Malfoy Manor.”

 

“But …” Harry began.

 

“As far as I know,” Kingsley continued, ignoring Harry, “the Manor elves can take care of him. That, and a Mediwitch twice weekly, will have to do. I cannot lose my best Aurors for more than a week. Is that clear?”

 

“Perfectly,” Hermione nodded and threw a conspiratorial glance at Harry. They still hadn't told Kings about their suspicions that the Malfoys' deaths and Draco’s disappearance might be connected. Harry discreetly gestured, ‘not now’, and she agreed: the timing didn’t seem right.  

 

Noticing their silent exchange, Kingsley narrowed his eyes. “Is there more?” he said, and then, looking over their head, went on, “Do you need something, John?"

 

Hermione whirled around and saw John Dawlish standing at the office door. “Morning, boss,” said John with a smile, waving to Hermione and Harry as well. “Anything new?” he asked, his eyes jumping from one face to another. “I thought I heard something about Malfoy?”

 

Hermione felt uneasy, unsure if she should answer his question. She didn’t know him too well, to be honest. Just that he was one of the oldest Aurors in the department, and had an annoying habit of peering into her papers over her shoulder. A very annoying habit indeed. Contemplating her response, she heard Kingsley’s bass, “No, John, nothing new. Do you have a minute, by the way? I have a few questions about your last report.”

 

Surprised, she and Harry gawked at their boss, who dismissed them with an offhand “You know what to do,” and turned to the older Auror. Hurriedly scrambling to their feet, they were about to walk from the office, when his commanding voice pinned them to the floor. “Hermione, we've received some new data from our Eastern partners. Could you file them for me, please?”

 

Hermione muttered, “Of course, sir, no problem,” and the door closed after them with a crack.

 

Harry rubbed the back of his head and grumbled, “Well, that went all right, I think.”

 

“I wonder why he didn’t tell John about Draco?” Hermione mused.

 

Harry shrugged. “It’s not official yet. You know Kings – he can be a bit … erratic. I think we need to find him a witch or something.”

 

“Or something,” Hermione huffed absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on a box that had appeared out of nowhere on her desk. With a sigh, she looked into it and found the aforementioned data tightly packed inside. 

 

“Do you need help with that,” Harry asked, eyeing the box with a guilty expression. 

 

Hermione smiled and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Nah, I got it.”

 

“All right. I’ll catch up with you later, then.” He shuffled toward his desk, the surface of which _was_ in fact covered with unfinished reports.

 

Five minutes later, awkwardly balancing the box on her hip, Hermione walked out of her Floo. Dumping the box on the table, she gave it a stern glare. It didn’t seem to mind, though. Unsurprisingly. She sighed, picked up the topmost file, and was about to open it when faint sounds drew her attention. Something was going on in the guestroom. Scolding herself for not checking on Draco sooner and trying to decode the muffled words she was hearing, she hurried towards the sounds.

 

She burst inside without wasting time on knocking and found the room empty. The door to the bathroom, however, was open and she reached it in three rushed steps. Inside, Draco, once again with only a towel haphazardly wrapped around his hips, was squeezing the water from his freshly-washed jeans, humming something light-hearted under his breath.

He didn’t notice her, and, against her better judgement, she didn’t back away while she could do it unnoticed. Her eyes skimmed over his darkened wet locks, following the thin trails of water that trickled down from them over his pale skin. As he twisted his jeans vigorously, she could see his muscles flexing lightly, and, despite the fact that his spine and ribs stuck out, his body didn’t strike her as weak. Shamelessly, she let her gaze linger on the parts that weren’t covered, slowly shifting it lower and lower, eventually reaching his strong calves.

 

She was staring, she knew, and yet she had no intention of stopping. Draco was … well … easy on the eyes, and frankly, she had forgotten the last time she had an opportunity to mindlessly ogle an almost naked man. She was no angel, after all. Her encounters with Harry, though satisfying, lacked many important things. They were friends, who rather conveniently knew how to bring each other to orgasm, and that was what it was about with him – a quick relief, a way to ease the stress. It didn’t stop Hermione from yearning for more. While, perhaps, she didn’t want them with Harry, she still wanted gentle exploration, foreplay, showers together – all those other things that true lovers do.

 

A soft chuckle drew her back from the reverie into which she had apparently slid without noticing. She snapped out of it to a pair of lucid grey eyes peering at her. Draco, with his jeans in his hands and standing only a foot away, was watching her with a wry grin. Evidently, he didn’t mind her ogling. At all.

 

“Good morning,” he said, and his grin widened. “I hope you don’t mind that I've turned your bathroom into a laundry. I don’t have any spare clothes.”

 

“Yes, I h– ” She lost her concentration as her eyes fell on the light thatch of blond hair below his navel. “Umm …” She frowned, and, trying to recapture her lost train of thought, dragged her eyes higher over a web of old scars scattered over his ribs. The one she and Harry had discovered yesterday caught her eye. “Does it hurt?” she said, and, without thinking, ran her curious fingers over it.

 

Draco seized her hand before she even registered a movement, reminding her that there wasan Auror hidden somewhere inside him. Covering her hand with his and tugging lightly, he flatted her palm against his warm skin and said, “Nope, not at all.”

 

He was so close: she could feel his breath on her face and the jeans in his hands were getting her shirt wet. Why, why had she decided to touch him? Feeling beyond awkward with her hand trapped on his chest, she muttered, “Oh. Good.”

 

Luckily, the next moment Draco let go of her, though he was still standing too close for her comfort. He cocked his head and regarded her with an amused smile. “You look pretty when you blush. I think I shall make you blush more often,” he murmured, his grey eyes full of mischievous sparkles.

 

Certain that her cheeks were flaming violently, she checked her reflection in the mirror. Merlin!Her face was positively beet-red. “Err, well, I’ll go and put on the k-kettle,” she stuttered, and slowly backed from the bathroom. Maybe this version of Draco didn’t remember anything, but he still knew how to slither his way under one's skin, that was for sure.

 

“Do you, by any chance, have something for me to wear? It’ll take a while for them to dry.” He lifted the wet jeans in demonstration.  

 

Dazed, Hermione blinked, and it took a moment for the gears in her head to shift. “Yes! I have a spare set of clothes for you. Give me a second.” Feeling inexcusably slow-witted and annoyed at herself, she scurried to get his things. _It’s jet lag_ , she told herself, _definitely jet lag_. It has to be. Somewhat relieved by that explanation, she grabbed the neat pile that Harry had brought yesterday and was about to hurry back when her eyes fell on Draco’s wand. Worrying her lower lip, she touched the soft wooden surface of the wand. Should she give it to him, or should she Floo Anthony and ask first?

 

“Is this mine?”

 

The voice near her ear caused her to jump. _Draco!_ He had followed her, of course. Inwardly cursing, she turned to find him still almost naked, and confirmed, “Yes, it is. Only –”

 

“Only what?” he asked, his eyes focused on his wand, and all his earlier playfulness gone.

 

Nervously twisting one of her curls, she said, “You are not supposed to leave the flat. At least not until …”

“I’ll remember,” he finished for her. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to run. I’ve nowhere to go anyway,” he added quietly. Then, with his face guarded, he curled his fingers around the wand, and Hermione immediately felt a warm wave of magic roll over the flat. “It _is_ mine,” he whispered reverently. He gave it a wave, and at once his hair was dry and styled. He threw his head back and let out an exuberant trill of laughter. “Ah, that feels good!” he shouted, and, pressing the wand to his chest, made a show of grasping and kissing her hand. He purred softly against her skin, “Thank you, darling,” elongating the ‘a’ in ‘darling’ with the most velvety drawl possible.

 

“Wait,” she called after him as he headed to his room, whistling something faintly familiar. “You forgot your clothes.”

 

“Oops.” He turned and picked the pile from the dresser. “Neat. Thanks again.”

 

Listening to the receding sound of his whistling and suddenly unsure that she could handle this particular assignment, Hermione sank on her sofa. The chiming of the clock interrupted her pondering and reminded her that he hadn't eaten anything yet. “Food is important. Is that agreeable?” she muttered to herself in à la Anthony voice, and went into the kitchen.

 

Breakfast, lunch, and in-between went without incident, though, true to his promise, Draco did manage to make her blush quite a few times. His never-ending remarks about everything – the red undertones in her hair, the amber specks in her eyes, the pretty colour of her lips – drove her bonkers. Literally. She tried to tune him out, but it wasn’t easy to ignore a very determined Slytherin. A rather attractive, determined Slytherin. A Slytherin who knew exactly what he was doing.

 

Luckily, still weak, he did nap during the day, allowing her to regroup and make progress with the files Kings had dumped on her. Somewhere around four o’clock, while Draco was sleeping, Anthony owled her and asked if he could stop by. She opened a Floo for him, and, half an hour later, he walked out of her fireplace with his habitual smile. “Hermione,” he said as soon as his blue eyes found hers. “How are you?”

 

“I’m all right …” She pursed her lips contemplatively, and added, “Kind of.”

 

Anthony nodded. “I guessed as much. I received a missive from Shacklebolt this morning. Looks as though you and Harry have got yourselves in a bit of a pickle.” He walked closer and, studying her face, asked, “Do you really think the Auror squad is the right place for you?”

 

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “It’s where I’m needed the most at the moment. We've talked about this before.” She sighed. “Nothing has changed.”

 

“Yes, we have.” Anthony tucked a stray curl behind her ear, gently grazing her cheek with his thumb in the process. “I … I just worry about you,” he said with a smile full of longing.

 

Hermione smoothed her palm over his shoulder. “I know, and I appreciate it. Truly.” Tilting her head and looking into his cobalt-blue eyes, she tried to find a way to explain that, despite all appearances, she did like him, and that their non-existent courtship was just a matter of bad timing. Alas, once again she didn’t find the right words and settled on a smile. 

 

“I see.” Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose, slowly exhaled through his nostrils, and ran a hand through his dark-blond locks. A moment later, he smacked his palms together and said brightly, “So, how is Draco?” His enthusiasm sounded forced.

 

“Fine, thank you for asking.” Unexpectedly, a reply came from the other side of the room. Draco, who apparently had been leaning on the doorframe for Merlin knew how long, waved his hand.

 

“You’re awake.” Startled, Hermione stated the obvious.

 

“Yep.” Draco came up to Anthony and, propelling his hand to him, said, “Nice to see you again.”

 

Anthony, already in full Healer mode, shook Draco’s hand and spoke with professional attentiveness. “Nice to see you as well. You look much better today, which is wonderful. I hope you don’t mind if I examine you, just to make sure.”

 

Draco grinned. “Of course,” he said, and they disappeared into the corridor, leaving Hermione agape at their backs. They returned pretty quickly, this time, and, after a swift goodbye and a promise to owl her with his recommendations, Anthony left, seemingly in a hurry. Knowing that his rushed departure was her fault, Hermione stood and watched the green flames ebb. _Hello_ _,_ _melancholy_ , she thought. 

 

“He's into you, you know,” Draco remarked conversationally, sitting on the sofa. “Are you into him at all?”

 

Hermione frowned. _Was she into Anthony_? The answer didn’t come to her instantly, so she just shrugged her shoulders.

 

“Not so much, eh?” Draco chuckled and glanced around the room. “Who are you into, then?” Spotting Ron’s picture on a side table, he picked it up and said, “Him?”

 

Taking the photograph from Draco’s hands, Hermione placed it back on the table. “He's dead.”

 

Draco blinked and a soft blush coloured his cheeks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he began.

 

“It’s ok.”

 

“I didn’t know.”

 

“It’s all right.”

 

“Well, of course I didn’t know, because I bloody well don’t remember anything, not even my family name.”

 

“Draco! Calm down!” she shouted, fed up with his blabbering. It worked, and he fell quiet. She sat down near him. “It’s going to be fine, I’m sure,” she said, and patted his wiry shoulder. The fact that she was constantly patting the shoulders of distraught wizards struck her as ironic. ‘A professional shoulder-patter’ came into her head, and she giggled. Draco arched an eyebrow, silently inquiring about the joke, but she waved her hand dismissively. “By the way, it’s Malfoy,” she said. “Your family name is Malfoy.”

 

“Malfoy.” He grinned. “Hmm, it suits me, I guess.” Then, pointing at Ron’s photo again, he said, “Were you together when, well, you know …”

 

“No.” Hermione sighed. “We were really, really close, but not together. At least, not at that time.”

 

“Hmm. How did he die?” 

 

Hermione wasn’t keen to talk about Ron’s death, but, recalling Anthony’s advice, she told Draco in as few words as possible that Ron had been found dead not far from The Burrow, with the pieces of his broken broom scattered around him. Nothing had been detected; no one had been arrested. The Healers in St. Mungo’s concluded that it had probably been heart failure. Apparently, cases like that, though rare, had been seen before. 

 

“Did you believe them?”

 

“I don’t know. Harry tried and tried and tried to find something … anything, but there weren’t any clues.”

 

“Ah, a cold case,” Draco said knowingly. Seeing Hermione’s questioning gaze, he explained, “It’s a show. We had a telly in the church; I watched a few episodes.”

 

“Yes, a cold case,” she said, and this time it was Draco who squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. 

 

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Exhausted, Draco went to sleep about nine, and, by the time Harry walked into her living room, Hermione also felt totally knackered.

 

“How is he?” Harry said, his face haggard, and sat down near her.

 

“He’s fine,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “Anthony checked on him, and said he was doing all right.”

 

“Has he remembered anything? Mentioned anything?”

 

There was so much desperate hope in his questions that Hermione’s heart tugged painfully as she shook her head. “No, not yet.”

 

Harry sighed. “Shite.”

 

“Did you eat?” She knew Harry’s habit of going the whole day without food.

 

“Yeah, Parvati brought me dinner,” he admitted reluctantly.

 

Hermione snorted, “Of course she did.” Harry let out a terse huff but didn’t say anything, clearly too drained to talk. The clock chimed eleven times, and Hermione stood up, pulling Harry with her. “Come on, you need a proper sleep. You look half dead.”

 

“Gee, thanks for the compliment,” Harry chuckled and wiggled his brows, though weakly.

 

She walked him to the Floo. “Go. We’ll be all right.”

 

Harry frowned but didn’t contradict her. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, I’m sure.”

 

“I’ll check on you in the morning,” he muttered before stepping into the fireplace.

 

“Yes.” The moment he disappeared in the green flame, Hermione sighed. Harry didn’t need to know that his former partner was driving her berserk. Actually, no one had to know. No one at all.    


	5. February 25, 2005

**_February 25, 2005_ **

Hermione sighed, took another file from the box, and slammed it on the kitchen table. Frowning, she watched airborne dust particles shimmering in the sun as they flew away, relishing their freedom. The sunrays that streamed through a gap in the shades looked surprisingly bright for February, and the only thing that didn't match this collective joy was Hermione's pensive mood.

She couldn't believe she still wasn't through with those bloody files Kings had dumped on her on Monday. It was Friday already, and it seemed that they had multiplied while she wasn't looking. Perhaps they had. She narrowed her eyes and harrumphed, glaring at the tightly-packed papers. In all seriousness, though, she knew exactly why she was so slow. The reason - blond, thin, and extremely high-maintenance - was napping on the sofa of her living room.

Today was the sixth day of her undesired exile with Draco. Being herself, even though routine wasn't part of the equation where Draco was involved, she had managed to create a semblance of one. Every day was almost identical to its predecessor: they ate together, and then she worked while he read a book or switched channels on the telly. That being said, he never failed to knock her off balance with some unanticipated question, which was always followed by a lengthy discussion. On Tuesday, for instance, he had noticed a photograph on a bookshelf.

_"Your parents, I gather," he said, twiddling the frame in his hands._

_"Yes." She_ _sighed_ _and reluctantly put her quill down._

_"You look just like your mum, you know," he_ _murmured, intently studying the photo._ _"Are_ _..."_ _he threw a quick glance at her,_ _"_ _are they around?"_

_Hermione shook her head. "No, they died four years ago."_

_Draco placed the picture back on the shelf and walked_ _over_ _to her. "What happened to them?" he_ _asked_ _, peering into her eyes._

_"An accident. A car crash," she_ _said_ _, her voice catching in her throat._

_"I'm sorry," he_ _whispered_ _and took her hand in his._

_She let him_ _draw_ _her to the sofa and told him about her parents'_ _death_ _._ _It had happened about a year_ _before_ _Ron's. They'd received a call from the Head of Australian Law Enforcement, who_ _had_ _monitored Hermione's parents after the war in case a stray Death Eater found them._ _She, Harry_ _,_ _and Ron had taken a Portkey there immediately to investigate_ _,_ _together with_ _the_ _Australian Aurors. Nothing suspicious had been detected. The car her father had been driving had lost control, probably due to a blown tire, and her parents had ended up overturned in a ditch. The car had caught fire, and_ _,_ _by the time law enforcement had arrived, it was already too late._

_Draco sighed and patted her shoulder. "Somehow, I have an odd feeling that my parents aren't around_ _either_ _," he said_ _,_ _after a pause. "Is that right?"_

_"Yes." Caught off guard, Hermione nodded_ _,_ _warily eyeing his solemn expression._

_"Hmm. And what happened to them?" he_ _asked, sighing and_ _pinching the bridge of his nose._

_"They were murdered. The murderer was caught and prosecuted," she said, heeding Anthony's warning and trying her best to be brief._

_Draco shrugged. "It's weird. I know I_ _should_ _be devastated, or at least sad. But I actually don't feel anything. I don't know them. I don't remember anything from my childhood. Nothing. It's just a huge black hole." He sighed and_ _,_ _leaning back on the sofa, closed his eyes. "So bloody weird," he muttered._

_"Yes, it is," Hermione_ _agreed_ _carefully. "But it'll get better. Anthony said it'd take some time."_

_"Yeah," Draco_ _whispered_ _, not sounding too convinced. "You know_ _what's_ _interesting_ _,_ _though?" He opened his eyes and stared at her, his face lit up_ _,_ _as if he_ _had_ _discovered something revolutionary._

_"Mm?"_

_"_ _There are_ _a lot of unexplained deaths happening around you and your friend." He frowned. "What's his name? Aha, Harry!" He_ _was_ _clearly very pleased that he_ _had_ _remembered. "Don't you think?"_

Hermione blinked, as she emerged from her recollections. She had thought about Draco's words, but had eventually decided that there was no connection between all those deaths. She hadn't told Harry about that hypothesis either. Now, however, she finally understood why Draco and Harry had been such perfect partners. Both were downright paranoid. She, by contrast, just couldn't see how the blown tire in Australia could have been connected with Ron's broom accident a year later. Other than fate being an über-bitch, perhaps.

 

Hermione sniffled and shook her head. She wasn't going to cry. No. She forced her thoughts to return to Draco. Besides his love for long and often torturous conversations, he enjoyed flustering her with his compliments and innuendos, which consistently made her blush, no matter how sternly she willed herself not to. He had also taken to ambushing her with an unexpected touch or caress. This last was a fairly new development, for which, frankly she could blame only herself. Foolishly, she had allowed him to massage her shoulders on Wednesday night, when he had heard her groaning and trying to work out the crick in the neck she had got after transferring files for four hours straight. It had been a mistake; she'd realised that the moment he'd run his fingertips over her spine, applying just the right amount of oh-so-relaxing pressure in all the right places. Yes, she had moaned with pleasure. She couldn't help it: he was simply brilliant.

The worst consequence of her misstep was Draco's belief that she approved of his invading her personal space any time he deemed necessary. Somehow, he considered that episode as permission, or perhaps even an invitation, to touch her. It was a constant struggle. Be it another massage or just a soft whispery stroke of his fingers over her cheek or hair, she was too weak to stop him, because, bloody hell, he did have very talented fingers, and frankly she enjoyed his touch. In fact, she had come to appreciate this version of Draco. A lot. She liked his easy-going disposition and the amount of attention he paid to her. And, in all honesty, she dreaded the moment when his memories would return, and he would turn into the Draco she had known: a prickly, broody bastard who had never given her a second glance.

It wasn't about her, of course, but ... he just looked so blissfully untroubled ... and whole ... and positive right now. She forgot when the last time had been she or Harry felt that way.  

Sure, she should have been more cautious, especially as an Auror, knowing the situation. Also, she should have kept Draco's last job in mind. Alas, it was only easy in theory, not so much in practice. With Harry being overwhelmed at work (was Kings doing it on purpose?), and Anthony only swinging by for a short, formal visit once a day, she had been left alone with a Slytherin on a prowl. She wasn't used to _this_ , and the sly wizard knew it, shamelessly using it to his advantage for whatever agenda he had in mind.

_If he has an agenda_ , Hermione thought, contemplatively biting the tip of her quill.  _Perhaps he just likes me_ _._ That thought filled her with excitement and uneasiness simultaneously, and she couldn't decide which one dwarfed the other.

She was not supposed to like him. For all she knew, she was supposed to cringe at the mere mention of Malfoy. Period. Plus, they were in the middle of an attempted-murder investigation, which made the flutters in her stomach unprofessional, at the very least. Then, there was the biggest drawbackof all: Harry with his obvious ... whatever-it-was for Draco. Although Harry had never confirmed anything, she could sense something was up between the boys. Was it camaraderie? Or more _?_

Ugh, there were so many buts, and _yet_... _And yet_ ... Hermione sighed. One thing was obvious: she had a problem, a huge one.

"Here you are," a soft drawl reached her ears. "Are you hiding from _me_ , darling?" He laid stress on "me" with a mock pout.

"You fell asleep, and I didn't want to wake you up." Hermione shrugged, pointedly focusing her gaze on the file, which she hadn't even opened. _No wonder the box's still half_ _-_ _full_ _,_ she thought, irritated with herself and her ill-timed daydreaming. "Do you need someth-" Her breath hitched as Draco's fingers found their way to her shoulders and skilfully began to knead her aching muscles.

"So tense," he murmured, gently nudging her head forward and meticulously working every painful knot in her neck.

"Draco," she gasped, unable to keep her breathing in check. "You don't have to," Hermione protested, but tilted her head as he directed.

"Shh," he shushed her in a soft whisper and swept her hair out of the way. "Relax."

His hands kept working on her shoulders, and his warm breath tickled her ear as he traced her earlobe with his nose before burying it in her mane and inhaling deeply. "Hmmm," he hummed.

She could feel the first delicious ache in the pit of her stomach and shuddered. _What was he doing to her?_ And then, his lips were skimming over the sensitive skin of her neck, drawing a warm, wet line there and making her quiver. "Draco," she breathed, making a weak attempt to stand up and stop him.

"Shh," he said again, firmly keeping her in place and lowering his mouth to her shoulder. Placing a hot kiss there, he moved his hands to the undersides of her breasts, gently fondling them. When his thumbs brushed over her nipples, Hermione let out a defeated moan and arched into his palms, desperate for more caresses from his knowing fingers.

"That's a good girl," she heard his chuckle, and frankly, at that moment she didn't give a damn how unprofessional or weak she was acting. She just wanted the wizard to work his magic over her and enjoy the ride.

Through a haze, she heard the sound of a doorbell. Leaping up in surprise, she accidentally butted the bridge of Draco's nose with the back of her head, making him swear under his breath. "Sorry," she muttered, and dashed to the door.

Harry stood on the stairs with a brown paper bag in his hands. "Managed to sneak away for lunch. There's a new Thai place on the corner. I thought we ought to check if they're any good," he declared enthusiastically, walking into the flat and shutting the door. "Are you all right?" He had evidently taken in her dishevelled appearance. "You look flushed."

"Yes. No. I'm fine."

Her answer made Harry tense immediately. His eyes narrowed, and he asked again, this time more forcefully, his voice laced with suspicion, "Hermione? Is everything all right?"

"Err," Hermione began, seeking and failing to find a plausible explanation for her looks.

"Ah, Harry, good afternoon," she heard Draco's voice behind her, and exhaled with relief. Suave and calm, as if nothing had happened, Draco walked closer and, towering over them with his grey eyes focused on the bag in Harry's hands, said, "Something smells awfully nice."

"What happened to your nose?" Harry asked, eyeing a red mark that appeared on Draco's nose.

Draco chuckled and touched the fresh red bruise. "Ah, this. Nothing serious. Apparently, I'm a bit clumsy nowadays. Managed to bumped into a bookshelf and knocked down some books. Luckily, our brave Hermione here saved me." He winked at her, and then, redirecting his gaze to Harry again, said, in his velvety baritone, "Is this Thai? Please tell me you have a coconut soup in there."

"Well, you're in luck, mate," said Harry, his face still a little tense. Draco flashed him a killer smile, and Hermione saw Harry relax as a grin made its way to his lips.

"No kidding," said Draco, closing his eyes and slowly drawing in the smell of food.

"I also have duck curry and scallion pancakes," Harry added, as his grin grew wider.

Draco's eyes snapped open, and he exclaimed, "Oh shite, I think I'm in love," earning himself a mock punch to the arm from Harry. Tugging the bag, Draco dragged Harry to the kitchen, saying something about the food and making Harry laugh.

Somehow, Harry's laughter didn't raise any happiness in Hermione's heart. On the contrary, watching them walking and chattering with each other so effortlessly made a sudden prickly feeling grow in her chest. Hermione drew a sigh and shuffled after them. She was such a mess.

The food was actually very good, and, for a while, they talked about their favourite cuisines and dishes. Surprisingly, Draco could remember what he liked and disliked, though his no-no list was rather extensive. _No surprises here,_ Hermione thought, chewing a crispy noodle.

"I knew you would appreciate this soup," Harry blurted, finishing his pancake. 

"How?" Draco stopped eating and locked his gaze on Harry. "How did you know? Were we friends, acquaintances, colleagues?"

Hermione glared at her friend, and Harry shifted in his chair, nervously fixing his glasses. "We were," he paused and cleared his throat, "well, we worked together."

"Hmm, interesting." Draco rested his chin on his hand. "Where did I work? What did I do?"

Hermione decided to intervene and answered before Harry had a chance to say something stupid. "You and Harry worked together in Magical Law Enforcement."

"Oh," muttered Draco, frowning as if he tried to remember something. Silently, Hermione and Harry watched him: Harry with hope in his green eyes, and Hermione with ... mixed feelings. The only sound in the kitchen was the ticking of the clock on the wall.

"Nope." Draco said eventually. "Have no recollection whatsoever." He shrugged guiltily and muttered, "Sorry."

Harry covered his disappointment with a cough, rubbed the back of his head, and rose. "All right," he grunted, "I have to go back, before Kings sends a search party after me."

"Thank you for the food," said Draco. "It was delicious."

"Don't mention it. See you later."

"Yup, I'll be here."

Hermione stood up and walked Harry to the fireplace. "Thank you for lunch," she said, and placed a quick peck on his cheek.

"Didn't bloody work, though," he said in an agitated whisper. "It's Friday already. There has to be something we can do to help him remember."

"I know, I know." Hermione patted his shoulder. "He's getting there. See, he remembers his food preferences. I think it's a start."

Harry sighed. "I hope so. By the way, Rob called. Henry's disappeared."

Hermione arched her eyebrows questioningly. "So?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. Whatever. I don't think it has anything to do with Draco." He kissed her cheek, said, "I'll swing by after work," and stepped into the Floo.

She waited until the flame returned to its normal hue, and walked back to the kitchen, where she found the table already clean, and Draco, obviously very pleased with himself, seated with a smug grin on his lips. "So," he drawled the moment he saw her, "where were we before we got so brutally interrupted?" He rubbed his bruised nose and, focusing his lucid-grey eyes on her, patted his lap. "Come here," he said, and the slight note of dominance in his voice made her knees buckle.

"Um, I don't think it's a good idea," Hermione replied, leaning on the threshold for support.

"Come on. I know you want this. Now, be a good girl and don't make me chase you around the flat." She didn't move, and he added, with a bit more force, "I'm waiting."

Damn it, he sounded and looked so tempting. Hermione took an unsure step toward him and hesitated again, trying to recall why exactly she shouldn't do it. Draco patted his lap again. Staring at him, she took another step, which brought her close enough for him to reach forward, snatch her arm, and propel her onto his lap. He didn't give her time to think. He just attacked her lips before she could utter a peep, let alone change her mind.

Bastard.

His lips, firm and demanding, didn't leave any room for doubt, and, with a soft sigh of surrender, Hermione opened her mouth for his eager tongue. Her hands wound themselves around his neck, and she felt his triumphant chuckle under her fingertips. She didn't bloody care. He was right - she wanted it. She more than wanted it - she ruddy needed it.

Draco took his time with a thorough exploration of her mouth, driving her berserk with his skill. Eventually, she felt him ending the kiss as he drew back a little, forcing her to untangle her fingers from his hair. Pouting at the loss of his comforting warmth, she tried to reach for his shirt, but he smacked her hands away and hoisted her from his lap. "Hey," she protested, but he silenced her by settling her on the table in front of him, and discarding her shirt and bra in one smooth movement, deliberately brushing his thumbs over her exposed breasts. When he had managed to make work of the buttons, was beyond her.

"Let me pleasure you," he said, standing up, his voice slightly huskier than usual.

Hermione didn't reply. She simply let him lay her on the table and have his wicked ways with her, as he hummed and crooned naughty things against her exposed skin. Under his expert ministrations, the sweet, delectable ache in her quim turned into a fire, and when his hand finally, _finally_ slid under her skirt, and his fingers teasingly stroked her over her knickers, Hermione couldn't help but let out a loud, desperate moan.

"Like that, do you?" Draco chuckled and proceeded with drawing lazy but methodical circles around the spot where she needed him.

"Stop teasing," she rasped and tried to guide his hand.

"Shh," he hushed her and, sitting down again, he spread her legs wider. "Don't rush. There is no fun in rushing." She felt him move her knickers aside and shuddered from anticipation. When two long fingers were pushed inside her, and Draco's warm lips landed with uncanny precision right on her clitoris and sucked, Hermione wailed and grasped the edge of the table, arching her back. Pressing the palm of his other hand to her stomach and firmly keeping her in place, he worked her so right, so relentlessly, and with just the right amount of force that she couldn't really hold it for long. _Fuck it, fuck it all,_ was Hermione's last semi-coherent thought before she let it go and fell apart.

She came round to a telltale sound of jeans being undone, and an intense grey gaze fixed on her. Feeling a velvety tip of Draco's cock already nudging at her opening, Hermione drew a sharp breath, whispered, "Now, Draco," and braced herself, waiting for him to fill her.

Instead, she heard the roaring of the Floo and several hurried footsteps, followed by Harry's voice, "Herm- Oh, shite! Fuck!"

As her mind went blank, she did nothing except squeeze her eyes and wish that she could disappear.

"Oh, Harry, good afternoon again." Draco spoke first, and shockingly, he sounded absolutely unperturbed. "We are just ... well ... you can probably guess. Would you like to join us? I know you two are close that way."

That assumption made Hermione's eyes snap open, and she propped herself on one elbow, wanting to see Harry's reaction. He was standing at the door with an utterly nonplussed expression, his eyes locked on the place where she was almost connected with Draco.

"Harry?" she whispered, watching his face. Hearing her, he seemed to come out of his trance. His eyes shifted to her face and then lower, lingering on her exposed breasts. She didn't try to cover herself. What was the point? It was too late to play the shrinking violet; he had seen her naked many times before.

"What the bloody hell?" Harry said quietly, moving his gaze from her to Draco.

Draco smiled and made an inviting gesture. "Come on, I don't think Hermione will object. It may be fun."

Harry threw a quick glance at her, and she gave him a little nod, surprised at the fact that she indeed was all right with Draco's proposal. With a shudder and a sigh, Harry took two small steps toward them, and for a moment it seemed that he had reached a decision. Draco's smile grew wider, and anticipation awakened a flock of wild butterflies in Hermione's stomach. Alas, a moment later, Harry stopped, shook his head, muttered, "No," and, turning on his heel, rushed from the kitchen.

"Harry, wait," Hermione shouted. In a flurry of movements, and with Draco's silent help, she managed to find her shirt and, frantically buttoning it, ran after him. Discovering the living room empty, and her front door open, she grabbed her wand and dashed from the flat, with Draco closely following her. They found Harry standing in the middle of the street, looking forlorn and lost. "Harry, we need to talk about this," she said, and grasped his hand. He didn't protest, and she began to tug him back to the house.

"Ugh, it's bloody wet and cold," swore Draco, who was only in his socks and jumped from one foot to another.  

Harry looked down at Draco's wet feet and suddenly snorted. "Well, it's bloody February, mate."

Bizarrely, these words made all three of them start laughing hysterically. When they finally managed to calm down, Hermione, still giggling, said, "Let's go inside," and began moving toward the house. That was when she noticed a dark silhouette emerging from the shadows and creeping toward them. "About time," said an eerily-familiar voice, and she saw something glistening in the silhouette's hand. Harry suddenly dashed in front of Draco, and an ear-splitting bang made her momentarily deaf.

Acting on instinct, she drew her wand and yelled, " _Stupefy_!" The black figure uttered a screech before disappearing with a loud pop of Apparition. Something clanked near her feet, and Hermione bent down to investigate. The sight that met her eyes made her feel sick. Wincing, she stared at an old pistol with someone's severed and bloodied forefinger lying nearby.

 

She didn't get to study the weapon, as an odd gurgling sound drew her attention to the boys. Draco was crouching on the ground, trying to prop a slumped Harry into a sitting position. Harry coughed, and bright-red blood coloured his lips. _No!_ pulsed in Hermione's temples, and she heard Draco mutter, "What the fuck have you done, Potter?"         


	6. February 25, 2005 (continuation)

_February 25, 2005 (continuation)_

 

 

_Harry coughed, and bright-red blood coloured his lips. No! pulsed in Hermione’s temples, and she heard Draco mutter, “What the fuck have you done, Potter?”_

 

“Harry!” she let out a shrill cry, dashed towards the boys and kneeled near them, her eyes burning with tears. As if on cue, a light rain began to fall, wetting her face. Muttering, “Harry! Oh my God! Harry!” She squeezed his icy fingers as her gaze frantically skimmed over his slumped form. His eyes were closed and his face – oh Merlin – it was completely white, apart from the bright-red trickle of blood that ran from the corner of his mouth. A darker-red stain on his shirt steadily grew larger, and so did the puddle on the pavement.

 

“Stop screeching, Granger. Get hold of yourself, you’re an Auror, for fuck’s sake,” someone hissed in her ear. It took her a moment to understand that it was Draco. She glanced at him, and the intensity of his piercing gaze drove her into silence.

 

“Send a Patronus to Kings,” he barked, his voice lower and darker than it had been the last time she heard him talking. “I’ll cast the charms.”

 

Feeling the cooling sensation of Disillusionment andMuggle-Repelling Charms settling around them, she let go of Harry’s hand, straightened up and drew her wand. She closed her eyes and focused, summoning her usual memory, and, as the smiling faces of Harry and Ron swam before her eyes, a silvery otter sprang from the point of her wand. The smoky creature made a circle around her, before setting off for the Ministry. A gurgle drew her attention back to the ground. Harry, apparently choking on his own blood, coughed again, and dark-red coated his lips.

 

“Fuck!” swore Draco. “I have to take him to St.Mungo’s.” Gathering Harry’s limp body, he grunted and tried to stand up from the ground. Hermione rushed to help him. It took them two attempts, but eventually he made it to his feet.

 

The sight of Draco cradling a bloodied, unconscious Harry pierced Hermione’s heart, and she grasped Harry’s hand again. “I’m going with you.”

 

“No!” Draco snapped, carefully manoeuvring Harry to a more secure position. “Wait for the Aurors. ”

 

“I'm going with you,” she repeated stubbornly. She wasn’t about to stay there while the life of her best friend was in danger.

 

“You’re needed here,” Draco said gruffly. “I've got him.”

 

“But – ” she started, but he didn’t let her continue.

 

“You. Are. An Auror.” He pushed each word through clenched teeth. “So, please, start acting like one. Do your bloody job, Granger.” With that, he disappeared with a crack, leaving Hermione standing near the puddle of Harry’s blood. Suddenly crushed by an enormous feeling of guilt, she watched as the rain unwaveringly sent its greyest, biggest drops into the puddle. When it had been watered down to a dirty reddish colour, she drew a shaky breath and looked around. Draco was right: she was an Auror, and she did have work to do. Ignoring the chill and her wet clothes, she determinedly marched toward the pistol and the severed finger. While casting the Stasis Charm over the scene, she swore to herself that she would find that sick bastard and make him sorry that he hadn’t splinched in half and died.

 

Muted pops signalled the arrival of the squad, and even through the thick fog that enveloped the street, she could discern the intimidating silhouette of Kingsley Shacklebolt quickly moving towards her. “Shite”, she whispered, and braced herself. This was going to be unpleasant.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

Two hours later, after spending more time than she would have liked explaining to her highly irritated boss what had happened, Hermione was rushing down an empty corridor at St. Mungo’s. To say that Kings had been angry would have been misleading. He had been downright furious, and rightly so.

 

First of all, he couldn’t grasp why on Earth all three of them had been outside. How was Hermione supposed to explain that? She had tried to justify their actions, but alas, her abridged version of events – she hadn’t been eager to unveil all the details of why and how – hadn’t sounded awfully plausible. Her weak explanations only made Kings suspect that she was withholding information from him. She was indeed, and in the face of his bombarding her with inquiries, it had been difficult for her to maintain her story. Fortunately, after asking a gazillion questions and not getting satisfactory answers, he had decided that Hermione’s hysterical state of mind wasn’t exactly productive. Realising that she had been sick with worry for Harry, he had let her go. Though, he still wanted to see her report on his desk first thing in the morning.

 

Now, listening to the sound of her footsteps bouncing off the sterile walls of the hospital, Hermione tried to clear her mind. It didn’t work. There were too many incomplete thoughts and questions swarming in her head. Especially questions, there were lots of them. Who was that bastard? Why had his voice sounded so familiar?Also, even though it was obvious that Auror Malfoy was back, the question of how much he remembered still needed to be answered.

 

However, the thought, _Let Harry be all right,_ trounced all the others. She couldn’t lose him as well. She couldn’t allow that. No. Just no.

 

Anxiety made her hasten, and, rounding the corner at full speed, she almost crashed into Draco. He sat on a bland white bench with his head in his hands. The sound of her steps made him raise his head and look at her. “Granger,” he said and shifted to the side of the bench, leaving enough space for her to sit down near him.

 

Ignoring his silent invitation, Hermione breathed out, “Harry? How is he?”

 

Draco gestured towards the door. “I just talked to Goldstein. He said that they fixed as much as they could, and they will allow us to see him shortly.” He narrowed his grey eyes and patted the space near him, saying, “Sit, Granger. You look as if you're going to collapse.”

 

She sank on the bench and sighed. “Do you think he'll be all right?” she asked, staring at the white door in front of her.

 

He gazed at her in mock-disbelief. “I hope you're kidding. Of course he will. It’s Harry bloody Potter we're talking about here. Everyone knows that he’s indestructible.” He flashed his wry Malfoy smirk and flipped his platinum locks with deliberate mannerism. Hermione thought that he seemed almost confident and sounded almost believable. 'Almost' being the crucial word because the slight tremor in his hands betrayed him, revealing that his false bravado was just that – false. In fact, he was just as worried as she.

 

Hermione nodded and examined his wiry form. The bloodstains on his jeans made her eyes water and sting, and she directed her attention to the fact that he was still just in his socks, though they were probably already dry. Somehow, the sight of Draco Malfoy sitting in a public place without shoes grated on her nerves. It seemed wrong, even somewhat disturbing, and, after a short contemplation, she quietly transfigured his socks into a pair of grey slip-ons.

 

Draco let out a half-surprised, half-amused chuckle and said, “Well, thank you, Granger.”

 

A wave of annoyance swamped her, and she snapped, “For Merlin’s sake, stop calling me Granger! It sounds downright stupid, considering what we were up to a few hours ago.”

 

Caught off guard, Draco glared at her for a moment. “Touché,” he drawled eventually as his gaze softened. “You have to give me credit. It’s a lifelong habit.” A teasing smile appeared on his lips, and he added, “Granger.”

 

She slapped his shoulder and, feeling slightly guilty for her uncalled outburst, said, “I know. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Sorry.”

 

He made a gagging noise. “Ugh, I beg you – just don’t go all mushy or I may vomit. I prefer a feisty Granger.”

 

She rolled her eyes. It was official – Malfoy was back. Eyeing at him speculatively, she asked, “So, do you remember everything now?”

 

Draco shrugged. “Most of it, I guess. The fucking problem is that I still have no bloody idea how I ended up in San Francisco. I can’t recall anything about that day.” Reflexively, his hand flew to his chest, and he rubbed his scar. “I still don’t know who that sick fuck was.”

 

She squeezed his hand. “Anthony said that your memories could return gradually. He also said that the memory of the traumatic event itself might never re-emerge.”

 

“Yes, that's what he just told me as well. I don’t much care for his idiotic theories, to be honest.” Draco huffed, looking unconvinced. “I ought to recall what happened. It’s as simple as that.”

 

Hermione nodded. He was right: they needed him to recall something about the day he had disappeared. It would make everything so much easier.

 

“Did Kings give you a hard time?” Draco asked after a moment.

 

Hermione shuddered. “You have no idea.”

 

“Actually, I think I do.” He chuckled, and then muttered, suddenly pensive again, “That voice today. It sounded familiar.”

 

Hermione nearly jumped from the bench. “Yes! I’ve been going bonkers over it for the last two hours and still can’t place it.”

 

Draco closed his eyes and, frowning, massaged his temples. “Shite,” he grumbled after a while and opened his eyes. “This half-functioning brain thing is bloody annoying.”

 

Hermione gave him a sympathetic glance. “At least the bastard lost his finger, though, to be honest, I'd have preferred his head. Maybe we'll be able to trace him someh– ”

 

The white door burst open and Anthony, his face haggard, appeared on the threshold. Hermione and Draco sprang to their feet. Anthony wearily nodded to Hermione and said, “We fixed everything we could, and it’s now up to Harry, how quickly he recovers. He is still unconscious, and I presume he’ll remain in that state at least until tomorrow. We’ll see.”

 

“Wait.” Hermione rushed forward, peering into Anthony’s eyes. “I don’t understand. Is Harry all right? Will he recover?”

 

Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t promise anything at this point. I strongly believe that he will, but it can take some time for his body to recharge. You have to understand, the bullet went through his internal organs – there was a lot of damage. For now, all we can do is wait.”

 

“Fuck,” she heard Draco muttering.

 

“C… can I see him?” she whispered, her throat tight.

 

“We,” Draco hissed into her ear, and she corrected herself, “Can _we_ see him?”

 

Anthony waved toward the door. “You have fifteen minutes.”

 

“Why fifteen, Goldstein? Why not thirteen or seventeen?” Draco muttered crossly.

 

“I am keeping him under a special spell, which works best when there are few or no interruptions. If everything works as I anticipate, by tomorrow morning he will be awake,” explained Anthony calmly, completely ignoring Draco.

 

“Sure, sure.” Hermione readily agreed and tugged Draco’s sleeve. “Come on.”

 

She entered the room quietly, feeling Draco’s uneven breath on the back of her head as he followed her. Covered with a white sheet up to his neck, Harry was sprawled on a narrow cot. His face, troubled even in unconsciousness, seemed as white as the bedsheet, and only his scar was stark against his pale forehead. Stepping closer, Hermione had to stifle a sob – he looked so worn-out, so fragile. Gently stroking his cheek and watching the weak pulsing of the artery on his neck,she kept saying,“You’ll be all right; you’ll be fine.”

 

From the corner of her eye, she saw Draco creeping closer and kneeling on the other side of the bed. The blond wizard found Harry’s hand, and, clasping it in his, whispered, “Potter, Potter, look what you’ve done. Couldn’t find another way, you overbearing prat? Just have to saddle me with a life debt, eh? Who's a sneaky bastard, after all?”

 

As Hermione listened to Draco’s soft murmurs, everything became clear to her, and she was forced to admit to herself that she had known it all along. The signs had always been there, but she had been reluctant to acknowledge them. It had been easier to ignore them. No! It wasn’t even that – she just needed Harry, really needed him. Now, though, watching Draco’s fingers caressing Harry’s pale skin, she couldn’t deny the facts any longer. The problem was that she didn’t know how she was supposed to feel. So much had happened between them that she couldn’t grasp the consequences. Had she betrayed him? Or had she been betrayed? Had she lost her lover? Or was she about to have two?

 

She shook her head, forcing all those thoughts out of her mind. None of it mattered now. Not when Harry, deathly pale and unconscious, was lying in St.Mungo’s. Following Draco’s example, she found his hand under the cover and intertwined her fingers through his. Alas, fifteen minutes flew by too quickly, and Anthony appeared at the door, announcing his arrival with a polite cough. As he took in the sight in front of him, his face took on a guilty expression, and he muttered, “I’m sorry, but I believe that he needs to go under that spell now.”

 

With a huff, Draco rose from the floor and left the room without a word. Hermione kissed Harry’s clammy forehead and followed him. Though, because she had somehow ended up feeling responsible for Draco’s attitude, she paused at the threshold. “Thank you, Anthony,” she said, patting his arm.

 

Anthony gave her a small, weary smile. “Of course.”

 

Hermione nodded and was about to leave when he caught her elbow. “Hermione, please, be careful. This job…” He paused seemingly looking for words. “All this … Auror’s business – it’s not for you. Don’t you see? It’s dangerous, too dangerous.”

 

Hermione tensed. “We’ve talked about this,” she said, trying to suppress the annoyance that once again flared inside her. Didn’t he understand that this was her job? Yes, it was dangerous, but it was where she felt most needed at the moment. “It’ll be all right, Anthony.” She gave him a tight smile and made and tried to move, but Anthony didn’t let go.

 

“Hermione, wait,” he spoke again, tightening his hold on her.

 

“Yes, Goldstein, you can let Granger go. She'll be all right.” Draco’s drawl reached them, as he strode over and wound his arm around her waist. “I’ll keep an eye on her. I promise,” he said, pressing her to him so firmly that she could feel his bony hip against her side.

 

There was a moment of a silent staring contest between Draco and Anthony, and Hermione was about to interfere, when Anthony abruptly released her, gave them a curt nod, and went into the room, closing the door.

 

“He’s got it bad for you,” Draco stated as he steered her toward the Floo, his arm still around her waist.

 

“I thought we'd already established that fact,” she snapped. She felt angry with Anthony and Draco, and with herself. “You can let me go now and, by the way, I don’t need anyone to keep an eye on me.”

 

“Of course you do, Granger.” Draco waved dismissively, though he did remove his arm from her body, which was very sagacious of him.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

 

When they stumbled from the Floo into her flat, Hermione was livid. How dare he imply that she was somehow less professional? “I’m just as good an Auror as you are, and I can handle my affairs perfectly well,” she said, her eyes narrowed in fury. “And who gave you the right to stick your nose in my private life?”  


“You did.” Draco nonchalantly shrugged and sat down on the sofa.

 

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione hissed. She was almost ready to pounce on that presumptuous sod, whose arrogant smirk was driving her bonkers.

 

The wizard had the audacity to arch an eyebrow as if in surprise. “If I remember correctly, you weren’t exactly against my sticking my nose quite literally _into you_ just a few short hours ago.”

 

Hermione’s cheeks reddened. “I … it was a mistake. I didn’t know,” she muttered, feeling defeated. He was so right, it hurt.

 

Seemingly unsatisfied with her capitulation, Draco abruptly sprang to his feet and advanced onto her. “Ah, Granger, don’t play coy. You knew perfectly well that Potter has a thing for me. It didn’t stop you from spreading your legs, though.” Halting a foot away from her, he fixed his fuming grey eyes on her.

 

“You … you … bastard!” Suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room, and Hermione’s throat went dry. “You tricked me. You caught me off guard, when I was most vulnerable and … and seduced me.”

 

He chortled, though his eyes weren’t smiling. “Really? Seduced you? And you are just a naïve, innocent little girl, who didn't know a thing? I find it hard to believe, Granger. I actually think that it was you who caught me at my most vulnerable state and seduced me. You are the perpetrator here, darling. All glorious you.” He gave her a smug smile. “I wonder why, though. Wasn’t Potter enough?”

 

“You!” Hermione swooped on him. “I’ll kill you, you smarmy git,” she shouted, vehemently pounding his chest with her fists.

 

Swearing under his breath, he pushed her into a corner and got hold of her wrists. “Granger, stop,” he growled, as she kept struggling, trying to get him with her knees and feet.

 

“Let me go,” she roared and rammed him with her head, still determined to beat him into a pulp. He groaned as her forehead collided with his nose, and Hermione shrieked in triumph. He deserved that. No, he deserved much more than that.

 

However, when she managed to strike his groin, he muttered, “That’s enough,” and, with one hard shove, pinned her against the wall, keeping her from moving by pressing his unyielding body against her. “Bloody hell, Granger, stop, for Salazar’s sake. I’m sorry, all right. I didn’t mean all those things,” he grunted in her hair. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not particularly partial to Goldstein, I guess. Especially when he grabs you.”

 

She stopped struggling and, breathless from exertion, whispered, “I hate you.”

 

“Understandable.” Draco shrugged and weakened his hold on her. “I’m going to free your hands now. Just please, don’t go all wild again, yes?”

 

Hermione grumpily agreed. Yet all the tension that had accumulated inside her was still pulsing painfully in her temples, demanding an outlet, and without thinking, she reached for him the moment he released her wrists. Seizing two fistfuls of his platinum locks, she roughly pulled his head down to her and greedily attacked his lips. He reciprocated instantly, matching her intensity and bruising her lips with his in a hard, demanding kiss. They clawed at each other, letting their pent-up frustration feed their need for intimacy, for each other.

 

Not breaking the kiss, they manoeuvred to the sofa and toppled on it in a heap of tangled limbs. Straddling his hips, Hermione carelessly tugged on different parts of his clothing, kissing, biting and sucking everything she could reach. She felt Draco’s eager fingers at her chest, and the sound of ripping fabric confirmed that courteous, sweet Draco from this morning was gone, and that she was indeed about to be fucked by the one-and-only Malfoy. Bizarrely, she wasn’t complaining. At all.

 

“Merlin,” Draco panted as her breasts fell into his waiting hands, and he cupped them, teasing her peaked nipples with his thumbs. Trembling in anticipation, Hermione reached for his jeans. She wanted him naked, damn it! Working the buttons of his fly, she could feel him, rigid and hot, pushing against her eager fingers. But apparently, she wasn’t quick enough for Draco and impatient, he turned them over, trapping her beneath him and simultaneously easing down his jeans. The moment he managed to free himself, he lifted and spread her legs, filling her with one sudden thrust and forcing a surprised, hoarse moan from her.

 

He paused and rasped, “All right?”

 

“Brilliant.” She affirmed, and then he was plunging into her, hard and slick and perfect. So fucking perfect. Pinned under him with her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, she yearned for his every thrust and his every stroke.

 

Finesse wasn’t part of the equitation of that particular coupling. Flushed, sweating, nerves sizzling, they moved faster and faster, chasing sensations and seeking that oh-so-crucial release. At some point, needing more, Draco pressed her knees further into her chest and his hands came under her buttocks as he continued pounding into her. The change of angle drove him deeper, allowing him to hit _that_ spot again and again, and it took only seconds before Hermione flew apart. Raking her fingers through his locks, she sharply pulled his hair, wailing her release into his shoulder. Following her, Draco shouted, “Fuck,” and bit along the curve of her collarbone, leaving a vivid bruise on her neck.

It took a while for Hermione to come back to reality. Alas, eventually she did, and it wasn’t pleasant. “Oh God,” she groaned, as the realisation of what they had done dawned on her.

 

“What?” asked Draco, who was playing with one of her curls.

 

“Have we just made the whole situation a hundred times worse?” Hermione drew herself into a sitting position and hugged her knees. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

 

Draco shrugged. “It did, and to be honest, I think we were pretty fucked up before that. I don’t see a dramatic difference between almost-shagged and actually-shagged.”

 

“But Harry?” Hermione gazed at him. It was dark, and she could only see his eyes glistening in the faint moonlight.

 

“First and foremost, Potter needs to recover. Everything else is solvable,” she heard him saying. “I don’t think he'll be too disappointed if the two best things that ever happened to him are waiting for him when he opens his eyes.” He reached to stroke Hermione’s bare shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, Granger. He won’t be able to stay angry with you for long.”

 

“And with you?”

 

“It’s not relevant,” he said, and then added, clearly trying to change the subject, “Poor Goldstein, though.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. Men can be so childish sometimes. “Do you love him?” she asked, feeling that she was slightly overstepping the boundaries but still wanting to hear his answer. “Because he obviously loves you.”

 

“Who? Goldstein?”

 

She elbowed his thigh. “Harry, you dunce. You know precisely whom I’m talking about.”

 

Draco shifted. “And that, Granger, is none of your business.” His eyes flashed warningly.

 

“Well, do you?”

 

“Sod off.”

 

“Right, that's what I thought.” Hermione sighed, and, not keen to turn on the light, summoned her wand and lit a few candles. Scrambling to her feet, she said, “What do you want to eat?” and shuffled toward the kitchen. Not receiving an answer, she turned to look at Draco and found him staring at the candles.

 

“Manor,” he muttered, springing up from the sofa. “I have to go to the Manor.”

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The Manor met them with darkness, a musty scent of abandonment and an eerie quiet. A flick of Draco’s wand filled the hall with the dim, uneven glow of candles. “Come on.” Draco started down one of the corridors. Ignoring the prickling sensation that made its way down her spine, Hermione followed him.

 

“Is it empty?” she asked just because the silence was unbearable. “Harry said that your elves still live here.”

 

Draco shook his head. “No, no one is here. I sent Wrinkly to help Andromeda. She needs him more than me. Plus, he loves Teddy.” He was moving rapidly along the richly appointed corridor.

 

“Oh,” Hermione muttered and focused on keeping up with Draco’s pace. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor, aggravating her uneasiness. The decorations and tapestries on the walls that had once showed off the wealth of the Malfoy family, were dusty and untended. The place looked downright creepy now, and Hermione shuddered as a number of unpleasant memories swam into her mind. Fortunately, Draco soon stopped at an ornate door, shoved it open and marched into the room.

 

Theair inside was stuffy, and Hermione had to sneeze three times to get rid of an annoying tickling in her nose. Meanwhile, Draco muttered, _“Lumos_ ,” and gazed around, frowning. It was a small room, with bookshelves occupying two of the four walls and an elegant mahogany bureau in a corner.   

 

“What is this room and what are we looking for?” Hermione asked, sniffing. Apparently, she was allergic to dust or, perhaps, to Malfoy Manor.

 

“It’s my mother’s study,” Draco explained. “And, to be honest, I haven’t a bloody clue what the hell we’re looking for. It’s just ...” He paused and walked to the desk. “I feel that it’s here, whatever the fuck it is.”

 

Hermione trailed after him and skimmed over the mahogany surface of the bureau. An open notebook caught her attention, and she stepped around Draco, trying to read the writing on its discoloured pages. _A diary_ , she thought. “It’s written in French. I didn’t know your mother knew French,” she remarked and reached to turn the page.

 

“Granger, don’t,” Draco’s shout rang in her ears, and, from the corner of her eye, she saw him rush forward in an attempt to keep her from touching the notebook. Instinctively, she drew back and bumped into Draco’s chest, initiating a chain reaction that led to both of their hands falling on the open pages. Hermione even didn’t have a chance to squeak, before she found herself swirling in the shimmering light of a Portkey. Clearly, the day wasn’t done with them yet.


End file.
